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GENERAL EDITOR 

WILBUR LUCIUS CROSS 

PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH IN YALE UNIVERSITY 




Washington Irving 
From a portrait by James Jarvis 



7 A.WwN^1 , *^ (K4JI^^\,>^^kA9'K^ 

I R V I N G ' S 
SKETCH BOOK 



EDITED BY 



ARTHUR WILLIS LEONARD 

INSTRUCTOR IN ENGLISH IN PHILLIPS 
ACADEMY. ANDOVER, MASS. 




NEW YORK 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
191 1 



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Copyright, 191 i, 

BY 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 



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THE OUINN A BOOex CO. PRCSS 
BAHWAV, N. J. 



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PREFATORY NOTE 

Five essays, originally included in The Sketch Book, 
have been omitted from this edition because, for one rea- 
son or another, they seem to lack interest for young 
people. The questions and comments accompanying the 
explanatory notes are neither exhaustive nor very sys- 
tematic; the purpose of them is merely to direct attention 
to main essentials and thereby to awaken some appre- 
ciation of Irving's qualities as a writer. All footnotes 
are Irving's. The material for the biographical sketch 
has been drawn chiefly from The Life and Letters of 
Washington Irving, by his nephew, Pierre M. Irving, 
and from the works on Irving by Charles Dudley Warner. 
Acknowledgment Is due to other editions for helpful sug- 
gestions. 

A. W. L. 



CONTENTS 

Introduction page 

I. living's Life and Works ix 

II. The Sketch Book xxv 

Descriptive Bibliography xxxi 

The Sketch Book 

The Author's Preface to the Revised Edition . . . ' 3 

The Author's Account of Himself n 

"*^The Voyage 15 

•^ Rip Van Winkle 23 

Rural Life in England 46 

—The Broken Heart 55 

— The Art of Book-Making 62 

The Country Church 71 

-The Widow and Her Son 78 

A Sunday in London 87 

--The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap 90 

' — Rural Funerals 104 

The Inn Kitchen 118 

— 'The Specter Bridegroom 121 

—Westminster Abbey 140 

Christmas 154 

The Stage Coach . . 161 

Christmas Eve • . . . 169 

Christmas Day 183 

- The Christmas Dinner 200 

—■London Antiques 218 

— Little Britain 225 

vii 



viii Contents 

PAGE 

"~Stratford-on-Avon 243 

Traits of Indian Character 266 

Philip of Pokanoket . . 280 

—John Bull 300 

The Pride of the Village 314 

The Angler 325 

— The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 336 

L'Envoy 375 

Appendix (Irving's) 378 

Notes and Comment 385 

Portrait of Washington Irving frontispiece 

Sunnyside: Home of Washington Irving .... xxxiv 
Rip Van Winkle's House, in the Catskills .... 23 



INTRODUCTION 



IRVING'S LIFE AND WORKS 

The first American man of letters, Washington Irving, 
was born in New York City on the third of April, 1783, 
the closing year of the American Revolution. " Washing- 
ton's work is ended," the mother said, *' and the child 
shall be named after him." Irving's parents came from 
Great Britain : his father, a descendant of an old and 
honorable Scottish family, from the Orkney Islands; his 
mother from Falmouth in Cornwall. The boy grew up 
under favoring influences. If the father's sense of recti- 
tude, in which there was much of the Covenanter's stern 
godliness, made his son feel the wickedness of all that was 
pleasant, it implanted also ideals of strict integrity; and 
the austerity of home discipline was softened by the affec- 
tionate sympathy of an intelligent mother. Moreover, the 
entire family, which included eight brothers and sisters, 
was marked for talent and intellectual Interest. This In- 
tellectual strain in the family partly explains why Irving, 
growing to manhood In New York, where his father 
and brothers were engaged In business, was so little in- 
fluenced by the strong commercial spirit that existed in 
the city. 

Irving was a handsome and attractive boy, affectionate, 



X Introduction 

full of high spirits, fond of activity and adventure. His 
lively disposition often led him into mischievous pranks, 
which caused his mother some passing concern, but he 
always acknowledged his fault with open straightforward- 
ness. He seems not to have been precocious: indeed, to- 
ward his studies he was somewhat indolent and neglectful, 
so that his formal education was brief and desultory. On 
the other hand, he showed early a ready ease in writing 
and a great fondness for reading. This reading was of 
the sort that appealed to his imagination — chiefly works 
of adventurous travel in which he discovered the fascina- 
tion of the world abroad. Robinson Crusoe, Sindbad the 
Sailor, and not least, The World Displayed, — a collection 
of voyages and travels — all of which he read and read 
again, sometimes in bed at forbidden hours, by the light 
of a secreted candle, filled him with a longing to see the 
world. With this longing in his heart, he would wander, 
he tells us, about the pier heads, and, watching the ships 
go out to distant ports, would waft himself in imagina- 
tion to the ends of the earth. 

To us it might seem that this desire could be but 
slightly satisfied by a trip up the Hudson River, but in 
Irving's boyhood such a journey was a real voyage, and 
to his fancy the Highlands of the Hudson were a distant 
country, " a realm of wonder and enchantment." In 
1800 he made the trip in a sailing vessel from New York 
to Albany. The effect produced upon his mind by these 
travels, recalled in the pictures of later years, should 
not be lightly passed over, for they are among the most 
formative influences of his life. '' My heart," he once 
wrote, " would ever revert to them with a filial feeling, and 
a recurrence of the joyous associations of boyhood ; and 
such recollections are, in fact, the true fountains of youth 
which keep the heart from growing old." 



Irvlng's Life and Works xl 

Irvlng's formal schooling was, as we have seen, somewhat 
slight. For a time he had intended to follow his brothers, 
Peter and John, to Columbia College, but, having little 
inclination to the drudgery of study, he abandoned this 
purpose, and, when he was sixteen, began the study of 
law. This too he soon found distasteful, and, his power 
of application becoming impaired by ill health, he made 
little progress. He read much, however, of that which 
suited his taste, and before long tried his hand success- 
fully at authorship. When he was nineteen, he wrote for 
the New^ York Morning Chronicle, his brother Peter's 
paper, a series of articles in which, over the signature 
" Jonathan Oldstyle," he criticised the manners of the 
town. These papers, though some may still be read with 
amusement, have little significance now beyond the fact 
that they reveal the author's early literary tendency. But 
at the time they were published — a time, it must be 
remembered, of great literary dearth in America — they 
made considerable impression and enjoyed no little popu- 
larity. 

When Irving was twenty-one, before he could com- 
plete his studies for the bar, his health suffered so serious 
a breakdown that his brothers sent him abroad to recuper- 
ate. After a voyage of six weeks, he landed in Bordeaux, 
and proceede^l from there through France to Genoa, Sicily, 
and Rome. The young traveler, his favorite wish gratified 
at last, was an eager observer of all that he saw, and, for a 
time, kept a journal, in which he recorded, sometimes with 
graphic detail, his impressions of persons, manners, and 
scenes. Nor was the journey without adventure. At 
Nice he was detained by the officials on the ground of a 
suspicious passport. While bound from Genoa to Messina, 
his ship was boarded by pirates, " a motley crew with 
rusty cutlasses in their hands and pistols and stilettos 



xii Introduction 

in their belts." And if there was not often peril, there 
were often discomfort and annoyance arising from bad roads 
and dirty inns; but with characteristic buojancy of spirit 
Irving took all things as they came. Perhaps the most 
remarkable thing about these travels, as Charles Dudley 
Warner notes, was the readiness with which this young 
man of twenty-one, born and reared in a city distinctly 
devoid of artistic and intellectual culture, adapted him- 
self to the conditions of the Old World — its traditions and 
atmosphere, its art, its cultivated social life. During his 
sojourn he became acquainted with many people, some of 
them persons of distinction, and found an easy footing 
in society. At Rome he met for the first time Washing- 
ton Allston, an American painter, and under the glamour 
of the city's artistic atmosphere and the influence of the 
artist's attractive personality, felt a strong but transitory 
desire to turn painter himself. After proceeding from 
Rome to Paris and thence to London, he embarked for 
home. An absence of a year and a half abroad had quite 
restored his health. 

Upon his return to New York he resumed his legal 
studies, but, in spite of increased vigor, with hardly 
greater energy than before. His liking for the profession 
was small, and social distractions were many. He was 
a welcome guest, both in his own and other cities, for he 
was personally very attractive, and enjoyed moreover some 
literary reputation and what was then the rather unusual 
distinction of having traveled in foreign lands. At home 
he became one of a set of young fellows who, without being 
vicious, affected to be ''sad dogs," and were given to 
boisterous convivial gatherings at the taverns. That he 
finally passed his examination for the bar seems to have 
been due to the leniency of the examination rather than 
to the extent of his legal knowledge. 



Irvlng's Life and Works xill 

When he had acquired the title to a profession, he did 
not practice it. At this point of his career he might 
well have caused his father and his brothers some mis- 
givings for his future. He was twenty-four years old, 
and so far had led a desultory, not to say rather idle 
life, distinguished chiefly by an aptitude for society. He 
had acquired, it is true, some valuable culture through 
reading and travel, but, on the other hand, he seemed 
clearly averse to the exactions of definite occupation, and 
he had not shown that he was capable of earning a liveli- 
hood. He made a faint effort to secure a political office, 
<vhich did not meet with success. Just at this point, though 
he could by no means bring himself to decide upon writing 
as a profession, he made a second excursion into litera- 
ture. In conjunction with his brother Peter and James 
K. Paulding, he undertook the publication of Salmagundi, 
a series of essays satirizing the theaters and certain aspects 
of New York life. These papers ran for twenty numbers, 
from January, 1807, until January, 1808. Undertaken by 
the authors with hardly any other object than their own 
amusement, they met with instant and more than local 
success, and were imitated in other cities. There is dan- 
ger of setting too high an estimate upon Irving's con- 
tributions to this periodical ; w hile his own estimate, that 
they were merely pardonable as a juvenile production, 
would seem too low. The amusement we derive from 
reading them now is due to something more than the sheer 
impudence of the critical assumption and the sheer youth- 
fulness of the fun ; they contain some passages of genuine 
humor, in which it is not difficult to detect the author's 
future quality. At any rate. Salmagundi accomplished 
something toward further discovering and developing 
Irving's abilities as a writer. 

In a few months after the final issue he was busy with 



XIV Introduction 

another work, which of itself is sufficient to place him 
among the great humorists in our literature. This was 
the Knickerbocker History of New York. It was origi- 
nally conceived by Irving and his brother Peter as a bur- 
lesque satire on the pompous pedantry displayed in Dr. 
Samuel Mitchell's A Picture of New York, which had 
just appeared; and in accordance with this purpose the 
authors collected a large volume of notes which they in- 
tended to exhibit in the spirit of mock learning. When 
the work was well under way, business compelled Pet^r 
to leave for Europe, and the task of finishing the book fell 
upon Washington alone. This was a fortunate circum- 
stance, for Peter, who, to be sure, was not lacking in ability 
to write, possessed no such happy gift of humor as his 
brother. Washington altered the original plan, reduc- 
ing the mass of learned notes and confining the historical 
period to the time of the Dutch governors. When the 
book was completed, the public was prepared for its recep- 
tion by an ingenious bit of advertising. Several announce- 
ments were published, declaring that " a small, elderly 
gentleman, dressed in an old black coat, by the name of 
Knickerbocker " had disappeared from his lodgings, leav- 
ing behind him " a very curious kind of written book," 
which would be sold to pay his rent. The book appeared 
in December, 1809. It is amusing to imagine the amaze- 
ment of those who, having expected a serious history, 
found only a mock-heroic satire of the early Dutch gov- 
ernors and of the engaging peculiarities of Dutch man- 
ners and character. Some of the descendants of these 
worthies were at first deeply offended, so that Irving was 
for a time threatened with exclusion from society. Others 
had the wit to see the jest at their own expense; and as 
for those who had no prejudices to wound, their delight 
was without bounds. In Europe the History found its 



Irvlng's Life and Works xv 

first keenly appreciative reader in Sir Walter Scott, who 
discovered in it humor like that of Dean Swift and Lau- 
rence Sterne. When he read it aloud to the members of 
his family, they laughed until their sides were sore. As a 
piece of pure humor, it remains Irving's masterpiece, though 
the style is not his best; it remains also one of America's 
best humorous creations. 

Irving finished the History under the shadow of a great 
bereavement. In April, 1809, Matilda Hoffman, to whom 
he was engaged to be married, died in her eighteenth 
year. " Though not a dazzling beauty," says Irving's 
biographer, " she is described as lovely in person and mind, 
of the most gentle and engaging manners, and with a sen- 
sibility that mingled gracefully w^ith a delicate and playful 
humor." Whether his fidelity to an early love is the sole 
reason why Irving never married does not seem perfectly 
clear, for it is certain that he afterward became strongly 
attached to Emily Foster, with whom he became ac- 
quainted in Dresden in 1822. However this may be, the 
effect of his loss upon his sensitive spirit was deep and 
lasting, passing into a tender and sacred memory and 
imparting to his mind a cast of pensive melancholy. He 
could never afterward endure the mention of Miss Hoff- 
man's name. He constantly kept by him her Bible and 
prayer-book; and after his death there were found among 
his effects a beautiful miniature, a braid of fair hair, and a 
slip of paper, on which he had written the words, " Ma- 
tilda Hoffman." The influence of this sorrow upon his 
writing is shown in the tender melancholy which per- 
vades certain passages and which occasionally, as in parts 
of Rural Funerals and a passage in St. Mark's Eve in 
Bracebridge Hall, takes the form of distinct reminiscence. 

As has oeen noticed, literature as a profession had so 
far offered little attraction to Irving, and the success of 



xvl Introduction 

the Knickerbocker History did not immediately inspire him 
to further effort with his pen. Even with the leisure 
afforded him by his brothers, who generously offered him 
a virtually inactive partnership in their business, he pro- 
duced little. He contributed to the Analectic Magazine 
of Philadelphia, — of which, for a time, he was also \ 
editor, — a few biographies of naval heroes and some 
sketches, two of which, Traits of Indian Character and 
Philip of Pokanoketj he afterwards incorporated in The 
Sketch Book, Yet he was not wholly idle in other ways. 
When the War of 1812 threatened trade, he went to 
Washington several times to look after the business inter- 
ests of his brothers and other New York merchants. 
During the war, incensed by the vandalism of the British 
soldiers at Washington, he enlisted as aide and military 
secretary to Governor Tompkins of New York. Beyond 
visiting some of the camps on the frontier, he took no 
part in active service. He might have entered the regu- 
lar army but for the close of the war. 

In 18 1 5 Irving took an important step for his career. 
His old desire for travel began to stir strongly within 
him again. Accordingly, believing that leisure was war- 
ranted by the apparently flourishing condition of his 
brothers' business, he set sail for Europe, " in search of 
novelty and excitement " and ready *' to spread his sails 
wheresoever any vagrant breeze might carry him." Soon 
after his arrival in Liverpool, he found the affairs of the 
firm in so serious a state, because of his brother Peter's 
illness, that, giving over his first purpose, he set himself 
to the drudgery of putting the accounts in order. For 
three years he devoted himself to these uncongenial tasks. 
Fortunately he was able to find relief in several excur- 
sions in England, Scotland, and Wales, from which he 
gleaned some valuable literary material. He also made 



Irvlng's Life and Works xvll 

the acquaintance of several English authors, and visited 
Scott at Abbotsford. The latter he found to be " a 
sterling, golden-hearted old worthy, full of the joyousness 
of youth." In 1818, the firm for whose interests he had 
been laboring was forced into bankruptcy. The rela- 
tion between Irving and his brothers was now reversed. 
In a more prosperous time he had accepted freely what 
they had so generously offered ; he was as ready now to 
offer his own powers in their behalf. He went up to Lon- 
don resolved to make money with his pen ; the result was 
The Sketch Book. It was published in America in sepa- 
rate numbers during the year 1819-1820, and in England 
as two volumes in the latter year. In both countries it 
met with immense success. His reputation was firmly 
established ; his confidence in his literary powers, which 
had been somewhat shaken by unproductive years, was 
fully restored ; his career as a professional author was 
finally determined. , 

Relieved from financial anxiety, Irving soon set out 
again to travel. The next year he spent chiefly on the 
Continent, first at Paris and later in Germany. In May, 
1822, he published Bracebridge Hall, a book of the same 
general character as The Sketch Book, though in some re- 
spects superior to it. The plan of the book, which was 
to bring together a number of wedding guests in an Eng- 
lish country house, gave the author the opportunity both 
to exercise his art as a story-teller and to depict certain 
characters and phases of English life. So successfully did 
he portray these that in this respect Bracebridge Hall has 
been favorably compared with Addison's De Coverley 
Papers. The book still further increased the author's 
popularity and fame, both among men of letters and per- 
sons of high position in society. His next production. Tales 
of a Traveller (1824), was in the same vein as the two 



xvIII Introduction 

which preceded it, but with the short story predominating. 
Though this book sustained his reputation with the general 
public, it was not so popular as the others, and it received 
some severe comment from certain critics in both England 
and America. The effect of these criticisms was to depress 
Irving's confidence in his own abilities and the constancy 
of public favor. He made an effort to write, but the 
effort was without heart, and the result unimportant. 
He needed the inspiration of new subjects to restore his 
enthusiasm for authorship. 

These subjects he was to find in Spain. In 1826 he 
went to Madrid as a member of the American Legation. 
At the suggestion of Mr. Alexander Everett, the United 
States Minister to Spain, he set about translating Navar- 
rete's Voyages of Columbus. Discovering, as he pro- 
gressed, that this work was rather a collection of materials 
for a history than a history itself, he soon relinquished 
his original plan and determined to write a life of 
Columbus. Immediately he began to work on his new 
task, reading extensively in the libraries and writing in- 
dustriously. His researches furnished him with a wealth 
of new themes, no less suited to his genius than those 
that had attracted him before — themes connected with the 
residence of the Moors in Spain. " These old Morisco- 
Spanish subjects," he declared, " have a charm that makes 
me content to write about them at half price. They have 
so much that is high-minded and Christian and quaint 
and picturesque and adventurous, and at times half comic 
about them." By his enthusiasm for this new material, 
he was diverted for a time from the Life of Columbus to 
work upon The Conquest of Granada, but this in turn 
he laid aside, and the Life was published in 1828. His 
first historical work won him great praise ; he was even 
called the founder of the American school of polite let- 



Irving's Life and Works xlx 

ters. The work, indeed, has peculiar excellence. Irving 
was not a trained scholar, but he had imagination, which 
enabled him to conceive and draw the character of the 
great navigator in its heroic proportions. Other books 
that were written or had their beginnings in this period of 
the author's residence in Spain are Voyages of the Com- 
panions of Columbus (1831), The Alhambra (1832), 
and Legends of the Conquest of Spain (1835). I" The 
Alhambra, as in The Sketch Book, we have a work that 
has laid a strong hold upon popular affection, for Irving's 
residence in the ancient palace of the Moorish kings of 
Granada, rich in reminders of departed splendor and 
legends of romance, was singularly stimulating to his 
dreamy and poetic imagination. 

In 1829, Irving returned to London as Secretary of 
the American Legation to the Court of St. James, an 
appointment which postponed still further his long wished 
for return to his own country. New honors. came upon 
him. The Royal Society of Literature awarded him a gold 
medal, and the University of Oxford conferred upon 
him the degree of LL.D., — a title which he never used. 

In 1832, after an absence of seventeen years, he re- 
turned to New York. Whatever doubts he may have 
entertained as to the feelings of his countrymen toward 
him quickly disappeared. The people of his own city, 
and of others as well, were eager to do honor to the man 
who had long held so large a place in their affections and 
who had won such distinction for himself and his country 
abroad. His fame had not spoiled him, or taken the fresh- 
ness from his enthusiasm, which was quickened by the 
clear evidences of progress during his absence. 

Nor did he rest upon the reputation he had achieved. He 
found new stimulus for writing in the West and South- 
west, where, soon after his return, he made extensive 



XX 



Introduction 



travels. The first and most direct result of these travels 
was J Tour on the Prairies, published in 1835, as the 
first volume of The Crayon Miscellany. This was a 
record of an expedition through the Pawnee hunting 
grounds, filled with pictures of western life and manner*. 
Soon afterward John Jacob Astor desired Irving to 
write an acount of the trading settlement at the mouth 
of the Columbia River, and offered to furnish him the 
materials, in the form of letters and journals. This book, 
Astoria (in part the work of his nephew, Pierre M. 
Irving), was published in 1836. In it the author applied 
his own knowledge of the West and his imaginative gift 
as a story-teller to such good purpose that he succeeded 
in producing a uniquely interesting volume. A similar 
handling of documents is to be found in The Adventures 
of Captain Bonneville (1837), which Irving wrote from 
manuscripts he had purchased from an officer in the 
American army. In addition to being occupied with 
these works and with the revision of his earlier writings, 
he published Abbotsfqrd and Neivstead Abbey, Leg- 
ends of the Conquest of Spain (forming the second and 
third volumes of The Crayon Miscellany) , a Biography 
of GoldsTuith, and The Life of Margaret Davidson. He 
had also made considerable progress on The Conquest of 
Mexico, when, learning that Prescott the historian was 
considering the same subject, he unhesitatingly abandoned 
all claim to it, though it had delighted his imagination 
ever since he was a boy. 

It was during this period that Irving at last realized 
his long cherished desire for a permanent home. In 
1835 he purchased a small estate on the Hudson, in the 
neighborhood of Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow. This 
property, once the home of the Van Tassels, was called 
*'Wolfert's Roost" (I.e., Wolfert's Rest) by the owner 



Irving's Life and Works xxl 

who preceded Irving, but Irving renamed it " Sunny- 
side." He renovated and enlarged the original house, 
an old Dutch cottage, added new acres to his lands, and 
transformed the whole into a beautiful domain, a fitting 
place of retirement and labor for an author in his later 
years. He did not desire this pleasant retreat solely for 
himself; it was to be the home of his remaining brothers 
and his nieces also. Here he lived for the rest of his life, 
except for a few years' absence In Spain, surrounded 
by family affection, visited by many acquaintances and 
friends, loved and honored above any other writer in his 
country. 

Irving's dislike of political office had been apparently 
incurable. He refused to be nominated for Congress and 
again as Mayor of New York, and declined an appoint- 
ment as Secretary of the Navy. But when, in 1842, he 
was appointed Minister to Spain, he accepted the posi- 
tion, despite his reluctance to separate himself from home 
and friends again. Certainly, as Daniel Webster, then 
Secretary of State, wrote to Irving, no person of more 
merit and higher qualifications could have been selected, 
for in addition to his personal distinction and some 
diplomatic experience, he possessed an unusual acquaint- 
ance and sympathy with the Spanish people. Upon arriv- 
ing in Madrid, he found the country in a state of 
political turmoil: a child queen, Isabella II, who occu- 
pied the throne under the protection of a regent, was the 
center of violent plots and intrigues. Stirring times fol- 
lowed ; but Irving's diplomatic skill, which was a matter 
of good Intentions and frank and open conduct, was suffi- 
cient to discharge with credit the demands made upon It. 
The exactions of office left no time for literary work. A 
Life of Washington, which he had begun many years 
before and for which he had hoped to have leisure In Spain, 



xxii Introduction 

made no progress. He welcomed his release, therefore, 
when in 1846 he was permitted to return to America. 

Irving was now sixty-three; the thirteen years of life 
which still remained to him were to be happy years, filled 
with productive labor. With powers still fresh, despite 
ill health and advancing years, he revised his complete 
works for republication and published new ones. The 
less important of these WTre Oliver Goldsmith (1849), 
an enlargement of the earlier sketch; Mahomet and His 
Successors (1850) ; and W olf erf s Roost ( 1855), a volume 
of tales and sketches. The great work of this time was the 
Life of Washington. As the volumes were successively 
issued from the press, they won the praise of the author's 
contemporaries for his true and human picture of the 
great soldier and statesman. The last volume was pub- 
lished in 1859. Ir^ the same year, on November 28, 
Irving's life closed, at Sunnyside. 

The total impression given by Irving's portraits, taken 
at different periods of his life, from youth to age, is of a 
man attractive in appearance and of a refined and genial 
nature, in which kindly humor and the habit of quiet 
contemplation are blended. This impression is confirmed 
in several contemporary descriptions. " He had dark 
gray eyes," a relative writes of him in his later years, " a 
handsome straight nose, which might perhaps be called 
large; a broad, high, full forehead, and a small mouth. 
I should call him of medium height, about five feet eight 
and one-half to nine inches, and inclined to be a trifle stout. 
There was no peculiarity about his voice, but it was 
pleasant, and had a good intonation. His smile was ex- 
ceedingly genial, lightening up his whole face, and render- 
ing it very attractive; while if he were about to say any- 
thing humorous, it would beam forth from his eyes even 
before the words were spoken. As a young man, his face 



Irvlng's Life and Works xxiii 

was exceedingly handsome, and his head well covered with 
dark hair; but from my earliest recollections of him, he 
wore neither whiskers nor moustache, but a dark brown 
wig, which, although it made him look younger, concealed 
a beautifully shaped head." Of his character and per- 
sonality, Mrs. Fuller (the Emily Foster already men- 
tioned) wrote the following description: "He was thor- 
oughly a gentleman, not merely externally in manners 
and look, but in the innermost fibers and core of his heart. 
Sweet-tempered, gentle, fastidious, sensitive, and gifted 
with the warmest affections, the most delightful and in- 
variably interesting companion, gay and full of humor, 
even in spite of occasional fits of melancholy, which he was 
however seldom subject to when with those he liked — a 
gift of conversation that flowed like a full river in sun- 
shine, bright, easy, and abundant." One hardly feels 
inclined to add anything to this sympathetic portrait, be- 
yond a further emphasis on his ardent loyalty to family 
and country, and his chivalrous generosity. If in his 
early life he was perhaps indolent and irresolute in the mat- 
ter of distasteful tasks, he redeemed the fault by years of 
unflagging industry. 

Thackeray, in A^/7 Nisi Bonum, calls him " the dear and 
good Washington Irving," and there is no better sum- 
mary of his character in a single phrase. " Was Irving not 
good," says Thackeray, " and of his works, was not his 
life the best part? In his family, gentle, generous, good- 
humored, affectionate, self-denying; in society, a delight- 
ful example of complete gentlemanhood ; quite unspoiled 
by prosperity; never obsequious to the great (or, worse 
still, to the base or mean, as some public men are forced 
to be in his and other countries) ; eager to acknowledge 
every contemporary's merit; always kind and affable to 
the younger members of his calling; in his professional bar- 



xxlv Introduction 

gains and mercantile dealings delicately honest and grate- 
ful; one of the most charming masters of our lighter 
language ; the constant friend to us and our nation ; to men 
of letters doubly dear, not for his wit and genius merely, 
but as an exemplar of goodness, probity, and pure life." 

Irving's life, which began almost with the beginning of 
the Republic and ended almost on the eve of the Civil 
War, is contemporaneous with a period of immense change 
and growth, political, social, and literary. But, although 
he was a keenly interested observer of what was passing 
in his own and foreign lands, his writings give little sug- 
gestion of this interest. On the contrary, one of their most 
striking qualities is their detachment from the contempo- 
rary life of America and, on the whole, from all modern 
conditions. That which made the strongest appeal to his 
imagination was the life of the past still evident in the 
present' — " the traditionary customs of golden-hearted 
antiquity." This appeal he might find in the slight 
legendary associations which had begun to grow up about 
the raw newness of his own country, or in the gentle 
aspects of English custom, refined into picturesqueness by 
long and kindly use, or in the heroic and poetic romance 
of Moorish Spain ; but, wherever found, it was essentially 
the same. His style also belonged to a past generation, 
possessing the distinct character of the best eighteenth 
century prose of the type of Addison's and Goldsmith's. 
His historical work, though not most characteristic of him, 
is of a high order. He was painstaking in the study of 
his sources, and his histories are substantially accurate. 
His chief power lies in his ability to organize a mass of 
material into an artistic whole and in his gift of imagina- 
tive portraiture. 

When he began to write, there was almost no American 
literature worthy of the name; when he came to the 



The Sketch Book xxv 

close of his career, that literature had enrolled the names 
of Cooper, Bryant, Poe, Longfellow, Hawthorne, and 
Holmes. Yet at his death Irving was regarded as the 
foremost American man of letters. His long continued 
reputation abroad is the more remarkable when we con- 
sider that it was established and maintained while a 
group of writers — historians, essayists, novelists, and poets 
— were producing many of the works that have made the 
first half of the nineteenth century so brilliant a period of 
British authorship. It has been said that he could write 
better than almost any contemporary Englishman. But 
this judgment applies, of course, to his style, for great 
powers of imagination and original conception he did not 
possess. His genius was essentially imitative and reflect- 
ive. He himself disclaimed any ability or intent to im- 
part wisdom or instruction. *' If, however," he wrote in 
The Sketch Book, *' I can by any lucky chance, in these 
days of evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, 
or beguile the heavy heart of one moment of sorrow ; 
if I can now and then penetrate through the gathering 
films of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent view of human 
nature, and make my reader more in humor with his 
fellow-beings and himself, surely, surely, I shall not 
then have written entirely in vain." 

II 

THE SKETCH BOOK 

The circumstances which led Irving to write The 
Sketch Book have already been briefly related; and a de- 
tailed account of its publication in England is given in 
the Author's Preface to the Revised Edition, which is 
included in this volume. The first American edition was 



xxvl Introduction 

issued in seven numbers, the first on May 15, 18 19, the 
last on September 13, 1820. Two essays, Traits of Indian 
Character and Philip of Pokanoket, previously printed in 
the Analectic Magazine of Philadelphia, did not appear 
in the first American issues, but were included in the 
English edition. The following essays, omitted from the 
present volume, were printed in the original numbers: 
Roscoe, The Wife, English Writers on America, A Royal 
Poet, and The Mutability of Literature. 

The impression produced upon the American public by 
the sketches is indicated by the following extract from one 
of Irving's letters: '* The manner in which the work has 
been received, and the eulogiums that have been passed 
upon it in the American papers and periodical works, have 
completely overwhelmed me. They go far, far beyond my 
expectations ; and, indeed, are expressed with such peculiar 
warmth and kindness, as to affect me in the tenderest man- 
ner. ... I feel almost appalled by such success, and fear- 
ful that it cannot be real." In England, William Godwin, 
the philosopher, who had read a copy of the second number, 
declared: " Each of the essays is entitled to its appropriate 
praise, and the whole is such as I scarcely know an Eng- 
lishman that could have written." Blackwood's Maga- 
zine, The Edinburgh Review, and The Quarterly were 
generous in their praises. Rumor ascribed the authorship 
to Scott. Lord Byron declared that he knew The Crayon 
by heart; — at least that there was not a passage to which 
he could not refer immediately. The author's growing 
fame brought him the acquaintance and friendship of the 
best known persons in England, and for a time seemed 
to rival that of the most popular British authors. What 
was equally notable at the time, it also created in Eng- 
land a kindlier feeling for America, and the first con- 
siderable and widespread sentiment of respect for Ameri- 



The Sketch Book xxvii 

can letters. Its brilliant success gave definlteness and stabil- 
ity to the author's hitherto wavering purpose to make 
writing his profession, and it virtually marks the beginning 
of his continuous career as a man of letters. 

It would be difficult to select another work offering so 
natural and appropriate an introduction to the author's 
life and writings. Apart from its intrinsic interest and 
charm, which make it still a popular classic with many 
readers who take little thought of its value as a character- 
istic production, it has the added significance of an inti- 
mate, though often indirect, revelation of the author 
himself. It displays almost every typical aspect of 
Irving's genius: his style and varied abilities as a lit- 
erary artist; his humor; his sentiment; his attitude 
toward life and literature; and much of his character 
and temperament. 

The range and variety of subject in the book is not so 
great as may at first appear. Certain types of sketch repeat 
themselves, so that, without being definitely classified, 
they fall roughly into a few groups. 

Perhaps the most important type is the short story. 
Irving was the first American to write artistically in this 
form, and his best work is still held in high estimation. 
That which Irving valued most in his stories — and that 
to which their continued popularity is chiefly due — is the 
manner in which they are told. '* For my part," he 
says, " I consider a story merely as a frame on which to 
stretch my materials. It is the play of thought, and 
sentiment, and language; the weaving in of characters, 
lightly, yet expressively delineated ; the familiar and 
faithful exhibition of scenes in common life; and the half- 
concealed vein of humor that is often playing through 
the whole, — these are among what I aim at, and upon 
which I felicitate myself in proportion as I think I sue- 



xxvIII Introduction 

ceed." These are words to remember while reading the 
stories in The Sketch Book. How little charm there 
would be in The Widow and Her Son and The Legend 
of Sleepy Hollow — stories of distinctly different types, yet 
equally typical of the author's manner — if each were 
reduced to the mere '* frame " ; if it were not for the 
" play of thought and sentiment " in the first, or " the half- 
concealed vein of humor " in the second. How much in 
each depends upon the language, the characters, and the 
scenes from common life. This is, of course, true, in 
greater or less degree, of all stories, but some can hold 
the reader's interest through the mere interest or excite- 
ment of events. It is particularly true of Irving's that 
they are made in the telling. 

In some of the essays the story is so much subordinated, 
and the characters are so fully drawn, that the attention is 
centered largely on the character sketch. The Country 
Church, Little Britain, and The Angler are of this type; 
and much of the charm of the Christmas sketches depends 
upon this element in them. In the nobleman's family, 
the Miss Lambs, the fisherman by the Alun, the Squire 
and Master Simon, we have lifelike portraits of persons 
who command our interest by reason of some attraction or 
eccentricity, some trait or point of view, purely individual 
or typical of the class of society to which they belong. 
None of the essays, however, — if we except John Bull and, 
possibly. The Angler — is a character sketch pure and sim- 
ple: the portrait stands against some fitting background, 
which possesses an interest of its own. In The Stage 
Coach, for example, the stage-coachman, who is described 
at such full length, is also a detail in the larger sketch, 
and contributes to the general spirit of Christmas that per- 
vades it. 

The descriptive skill which Irving showed in his por- 



The Sketch Book xxix 

traits of persons, he appHed with equally good effect to 
other subjects. He had the artist's eye for color and 
beauty of form, and he was able to achieve with the pen 
something of the effects secured by the artist with pencil 
and brush. He loved the picturesque; he loved particu- 
larly the sort of picturesqueness that came of age and 
mellowing decay, or that held reminders of man's life in 
a time that had gone. And so we find that the ancient 
country church, the venerable abbey, the places associated 
with Shakespeare's life and death, time-honored funeral 
rites or antique Christmas festivals, all alike offered him 
attractive themes. It is because of this character in his 
descriptive subjects that his descriptions are so often per- 
meated with reflection. He loved to muse on the past as 
well as to describe some survival of it, and it often 
required but a slight suggestion to stimulate him to 
reverie. In this tendency is to be found the source 
of many of the sentimental passages in The Sketch 
Book. 

Much has been said concerning Irving's indebtedness to 
Addison and Goldsmith, and it is true that some of the 
essa5's resemble the work of these writers so closely as to 
suggest conscious imitation. In his portrayal of char- 
acters, for example, he recalls the manner of the Spectator. 
There is in each the same eye for amusing whim and 
foible, the same light, kindly, ironic touch. Moreover, 
the method is often the same — a bit of description, a bit 
of anecdote, a bit of dialogue in which the character reveals 
himself. In the matter of style, the resemblance is even 
more striking and sustained. There is the same limpid 
clearness, the same felicitous choice of word and phrase, 
the same smoothly wrought and harmonious sentences, 
the same elusive play of humor. Yet, since Irving him- 
self declared that he did not imitate any writer, we may 



XXX Introduction 

conclude that the likeness is due to his unconscious ab- 
sorption of what he had read and to a real kinship with 
his eighteenth century predecessors. At any rate, his style 
is thoroughly his own, and through all its other qualities 
we feel the charm of a pervading personal grace. 



DESCRIPTIVE BIBLIOGRAPHY 

The authoritative biography of Irving is The Life of 
Washington Irving, by his nephew, Pierre M. Irving, 
originally published (1862) in four volumes by G. P. 
Putnam's Sons of New York, but later condensed into 
three. This is valuable as a work of reference, and 
contains a great number of the author's letters. A briefer 
life, notably sympathetic in its treatment, is Charles 
Dudley Warner's Washington Irving, in the American 
Men of Letters Series (Houghton MifHin Company). 
The same author has written also two short studies, in 
the same appreciative spirit: Washington Irving, an essay 
prepared as an introduction to the Geoffrey Crayon Edi- 
tion of Irving's works, and The Work of Washington 
Irving, published as a separate small volume in Harper's 
Black and White Series. The last mentioned essay con- 
tains a very interesting description of New York City in 
the time of Irving's boyhood. Other helpful biographies 
are Washington Irving, by D. J. Hill, in the American 
Authors Series, and Washington Irving, by H. W. Boyn- 
ton, in the Riverside Biogj-aphical Series. The stu- 
dent is referred also to the pages on Irving by E. W. 
Morse in Warner's Clasics — Historians and Essayists, and 
to the stimulating chapter in Barrett Wendell's Literary 
History of America. Of the many magazine articles and 
reviews mention may be made of Thackeray's Nil Nisi 
Bonum, reprinted in Roundabout Papers; and the articles 
in the Irving number of The Critic, March 31, 1883. 
Chapters on places associated with Irving will be found in 

xxxi 



xxxii Descriptive Bibliography 

Hamilton W. Mable's Backgrounds of Literature (Out- 
look Co.), Clifton Johnson's The Picturesque Hudson 
(The Macmillan Co.), and Theodore F. Wolfe's Liter- 
ary Haunts and Homes (J. B. Lippincott Co.). 

Several editions of Irving's works are published by 
G. P. Putnam's Sons. Of these mention may be made 
of the Hudson Edition (the author's revised edition) in 
twenty-seven volumes. A complete edition is published 
by Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. of New York. The fol- 
lowing list contains the titles of Irving's principal works 
and the date of their publication. The most important of 
them are briefly described in the Introduction: 



1802. Jonathan Oldstyle Papers. 

Articles contributed to the New York Morning Chronicle, 
1807-1808. Salmagundi. 

1809. A History of Neiv York, by " Diedrich Knickerbocker." 
1819-1820. The Sketch Book, by " Geoffrey Crayon." 
1822. Bracebridge Hall. 
1824. Tales of a Traveller. 

1828. The Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus, 

Issued the next year in abridged form. 

1829. Chronicles of the Conquest of Granada. 

1831. Voyages of the Companions of Columbus. 

1832. Tales of the Alhambra. 

SA Tour on the Prairies. ) Each a separate vol- 

Abbotsford and Neiustead Abbey. >\xmt of The Crayon 
Legends of the Conquest of Spain. ) Miscellany. 

1836. Astoria. 

(In collaboration with Pierre M. Irving.) 

1837. Adventures of Captain Bonneville. 
1840. Biography of Goldsmith. 

To accompany a selection of Goldsmith's writings in 
" Harper's Family Library." 
1840. Life of Margaret Davidson. 

An account of the life of a beautiful American girl 
of surprising poetical talent, who died between the 
ages of fifteen and sixteen. 



Descriptive Bibliography xxxlli 

1841. Life of Thomas Campbell. 

1849. Life of Goldsmith. 

Enlarged from the earlier sketch. 

1850. Mahomet and His Successors. 
1855. Wolfert's Roost. 

Containing essays previously published in the Knicker' 
bocker Magazine. 
1855-1859. Life of George Washington. 
In five volumes. 



THE SKETCH BOOK 

OF 

GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 

** I have no wife nor children, good or bad, to provide for. A 
mere spectator of other men's fortunes and adventures, and how 
they play their parts, which, methinks, are diversely presented 
unto me, as from a common theater or scene." 

Burton. 



AUTHOR'S PREFACE 

TO THE REVISED EDITION 

The following papers, with two exceptions, were writ- 
ten In England, and formed but part of an Intended series, 
for which I had made notes and memorandums. Before 
I could mature a plan, however, circumstances compelled 
me to send them piece-meal to the United States, where 5 
they were published from time to time In portions or num- 
bers. It was not my Intention to publish them In England, 
being conscious that much of their contents would be inter- 
esting only to American readers, and, in truth, being 
deterred by the severity with which American produc- 10 
tlons had been treated by the British press. 

By the time the contents of the first volume had ap- 
peared In this occasional manner, they began to find their 
way across the Atlantic, and to be Inserted, with many 
kind encomiums, in the London Literary Gazette. It was 15 
said, also, that a London bookseller intended to publish 
them in a collective form. I determined, therefore, to 
bring them forward myself, that they might at least have 
the benefit of my superintendence and revision. I accord- 
ingly took the printed numbers which I had received from 20 
the United States, to Mr. John Murray, the eminent pub- 
lisher, from whom I had already received friendly atten- 
tions, and left them with him for examination, informing 
him that should he be Inclined to bring them before the 
public, I had materials enough on hand for a second 25 
volume. Several days having elapsed without any com- 

3 



4 Preface to the Revised Edition 

munication from Mr. Murray, I addressed a note to him, 
in which I construed his silence into a tacit rejection of 
my work, and begged that the numbers I had left with him 
might be returned to me. The following was his reply: 

5 My dear Sir, — 

I entreat you to believe that I feel truly obliged by your kind 
intentions towards me, and that I entertain the most unfeigned 
respect for your most tasteful talents. My house is completely 
filled with work-people at this time, and I have only an office to 
10 transact business in; and yesterday I was wholly occupied, or I 
should have done myself the pleasure of seeing you. 

If it would not suit me to engage in the publication of your 
present work, it is only because I do not see that scope in the na- 
ture of it which would enable me to make those satisfactory ac- 
15 counts between us, without which I really feel no satisfaction in 
engaging — but I will do all I can to promote their circulation, 
and shall be most ready to attend to any future plan of yours. 
With much regard, I remain, dear sir. 

Your faithful servant, 

John Murray. 

This was disheartening, and might have deterred me 
20 from any further prosecution of the matter, had the ques- 
tion of republication in Great Britain rested entirely with 
me; but I apprehended the appearance of a spurious edi- 
tion. I now thought of Mr. Archibald Constable as pub- 
lisher, having been treated by him with much hospitality 
25 during a visit to Edinburgh ; but first I determined to 
submit my work to Sir Walter (then Mr.) Scott, being 
encouraged to do so by the cordial reception I had. experi- 
enced from him at Abbotsford a few years previously, and 
by the favorable opinion he had expressed to others of my 
30 earlier writings. I accordingly sent him the printed num- 
bers of the Sketch Book in a parcel by coach, and at the 
same time wrote to him, hinting that since I had had the 
pleasure of partaking of his hospitality, a reverse had 



Preface to the Revised Edition 5 

taken place in my affairs which made the successful exercise 
of mj^ pen all-important to me ; I begged him, therefore, 
to look over the literary articles I had forwarded to him, 
and, if he thought they would bear European republication, 
to ascertain whether Mr. Constable would be inclined to 5 
be the publisher. 

The parcel containing my work went by coach to Scott's 
address in Edinburgh ; the letter went by mail to his resi- 
dence in the country. By the very first post I received a 
reply, before he had seen my work. 10 

" I was down at Kelso," said he, " when your letter 
reached Abbotsford. I am now on my way to town, and 
will converse with Constable, and do all in my power to 
forward your views — I assure you nothing will give me 
more pleasure." 15 

The hint, however, about a reverse of fortune had struck 
the quick apprehension of Scott, and, with that practical 
and efficient good will which belonged to his nature, he 
had already devised a way of aiding me. 

A weekly periodical, he went on to inform me, was 20 
about to be set up in Edinburgh, supported by the most 
respectable talents, and amply furnished with all the neces- 
sary information. The appointment of the editor, for 
which ample funds were provided, would be five hundred 
pounds sterling a year, with the reasonable prospect of 25 
further advantages. This situation, being apparently at 
his disposal, he frankly offered to me. The work, how- 
ever, he intimated, was to have somewhat of a political 
bearing, and he expressed an apprehension that the tone it 
was desired to adopt might not suit me. " Yet I risk the 30 
question," added he, " because I know no man so well 
qualified for this important task, and perhaps because it 
will necessarily bring you to Edinburgh. If my proposal 
does not suit, you need only keep the matter secret, and 



6 Preface to the Revised Edition 

there is no harm done. ' And for my love I pray you wrong 
mc not.' If, on the contrary, you think it could be made 
to suit you, let me know as soon as possible, addressing 
Castle Street, Edinburgh." 
5 In a postscript, written from Edinburgh, he adds, *' I 
am just come here, and have glanced over the Sketch Book. 
It is positively beautiful, and increases my desire to crimp 
you, if it be possible. Some difficulties there always are in 
managing such a matter, especially at the outset; but we 

10 will obviate them as much as we possibly can." 

The following is from an imperfect draught of my 
reply, which underwent some modifications in the copy 
sent: 

" I cannot express how much I am gratified by your 

15 letter. I had begun to feel as if I had taken an unwarrant- 
able liberty; but, somehow or other, there is a genial sun- 
shine about you that warms every creeping thing into heart 
and confidence. Your literary proposal both surprises and 
flatters me, as it evinces a much higher opinion of my 

20 talents than I have myself." 

I then went on to explain that I found myself peculiarly 
unfitted for the situation offered to me, not merely by 
my political opinions, but by the very constitution and 
habits of my mind. " My whole course of life," I ob- 

25 served, " has been desultory, and I am unfitted for any 
periodically recurring task, or any stipulated labor of body 
or mind. I have no command of my talents, such as they 
are, and have to watch the varyings of my mind as I would 
those of a weather-cock. Practice and training may bring 

30 me more into rule, but at present I am as useless for regu- 
lar service as one of my own country Indians or a Don 
Cossack. 

" I must, therefore, keep on pretty much as I have be- 
gun; writing when I can, not when I would. I shall 



Preface to the Revised Edition 7 

occasionally shift my residence and write whatever is sug- 
gested by objects before me, or whatever rises in my imagi- 
nation; and hope to write better and more copiously by 
and by. 

" I am playing the egotist, but I know no better way of 5 
answering your proposal than by showing what a very 
good-for-nothing kind of being I am. Should Mr. Con- 
stable feel inclined to make a bargain for the wares I have 
on hand, he will encourage me to further enterprise; and 
it w^ill be something like trading with a gipsy for the fruits 10 
of his prowlings, who may at one time have nothing but a 
wooden bowl to offer, and at another time a silver 
tankard." 

In reply, Scott expressed regret, but not surprise, at my 
declining what might have proved a troublesome duty. 15 
He then recurred to the original subject of our corre- 
spondence ; entered into a detail of the various terms upon 
which arrangements were made between authors and book- 
sellers, that I might take my choice; expressing the most 
encouraging confidence of the success of my work, and of 20 
previous works which I had produced in America. " I did 
no more," added he, *' than open the trenches with Con- 
stable; but I am sure if you will take the trouble to write 
to him, you will find him disposed to treat your overtures 
with every degree of attention. Or, if you think it of con- 25 
sequence in the first place to see me, I shall be in London 
in the course of a month, and whatever my experience can 
command is most heartily at your command. But I can 
add little to what I have said above, except my earnest 
recommendation to Constable to enter into the negotia- 30 
tion." ^ 

^ I cannot avoid subjoining in a note a succeeding paragraph of 
Scott's letter, which, though it does not relate to the main subject 
of our correspondence, was too characteristic to be omitted. Some 



8 Preface to the Revised Edition 

Before the receipt of this most obliging letter, however, 
I had determined to look to no leading bookseller for a 
launch, but to throw my w^ork before the public at my own 
risk, and let it sink or swim according to its merits. I 
5 wrote to that effect to Scott, and soon received a reply: 
" I observe with pleasure that you are going to come 
forth in Britain. It is certainly not the very best way to 
publish on one's own account; for the booksellers set their 
face against the circulation of such works as do not pay an 

10 amazing toll to themselves. But they have lost the art of 
altogether damming up the road in such cases between the 
author and the public, which they were once able to do as 
effectually as Diabolus in John Bunyan's Holy War closed 
up the windows of my Lord Understanding's mansion. 

15 I am sure of one thing, that you have only to be known to 
the British public to be admired by them, and I would not 
say so unless I really was of that opinion. 

*' If you ever see a witty but rather local publication 
called Blackivood's Edinburgh Magazine, you will find 

20 some notice of your works in the last number: the author 
is a friend of mine, to whom I have introduced you in your 
literary capacity. His name is Lockhart, a young man of 

time previously I had sent Miss Sophia Scott small duodecimo 
American editions of her father's poems published in Edinburgh 
in quarto volumes ; showing the " nigromancy " of the American 
press, by which a quart of wine is conjured into a pint bottle. 
Scott observes: " In my hurry, I have not thanked you in Sophia's 
name for the kind attention which furnished her with the Amer- 
ican volumes. I am not quite sure I can add my own, since you 
have made her acquainted with much more of papa's folly than 
she would ever otherwise have learned; for I had taken special 
care they should never see any of those things during their earlier 
years. I think I told you that Walter is sweeping the firmament 
with a feather like a may-pole, and indenting the pavement with 
a sword like a scythe — in other words, he has become a whiskered 
hussar in the i8th dragoons." 



Preface to the Revised Edition 9 

very considerable talent, and who will soon be intimately 
connected with my family. My faithful friend Knicker- 
bocker Is to be next examined and Illustrated. Constable 
was extremely willing to enter into consideration of a 
treaty for your works, but I foresee will be still more so 5 
when 

Your name Is up, and may go 
From Toledo to Madrid. 

And that will soon be the case. I trust to be in 



London about the middle of the month, and promise my- 10 
self great pleasure in once again shaking j-ou by the hand." 

The first volume of the Sketch Book was put to press 
In London as I had resolved, at my own risk, by a book- 
seller unknown to fame, and without any of the usual arts 
by which a work Is trumpeted Into notice. Still some at- 15 
tentlon had been called to It by the extracts which had 
previously appeared In the Literary Gazette, and by the 
kind word spoken by the editor of that periodical, and it 
was getting into fair circulation, when my worthy book- 
seller failed before the first month w^as over, and the sale 20 
was interrupted. 

At this juncture Scott arrived in London. I called to 
him for help, as I w^as sticking in the mire, and, more 
propitious than Hercules, he put his own shoulder to the 
w^heel. Through his favorable representations, Murray 25 
w^as quickly Induced to undertake the future publication 
of the work which he had previously declined. A further 
edition of the first volume was struck ofE and the second 
volume was put to press, and from that time Murray be- 
came my publisher, conducting himself In all his dealings 30 
with that fair, open, and liberal spirit which had obtained 
for him the well-merited appellation of the Prince of Book- 
sellers. 



10 Preface to the Revised Edition 

Thus, under the kind and cordial auspices of Sir Walter 
Scott, I began my literary career in Europe ; and I feel 
that I am but discharging, in a trifling degree, my debt of 
gratitude to the memory of that golden-hearted man in 
5 acknowledging my obligations to him. — But who of his 
literary contemporaries ever applied to him for aid or coun- 
sel that did not experience the most prompt, generous, and 
effectual assistance! 

W.I. 



THE SKETCH BOOK 

THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF 

" I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that crept 
out of her she! was turned eftsoons into a toad, and thereby was 
forced to make a stoole to sit on; so the traveler that stragleth 
from his owne country is in a short time transformed into so 
monstrous a shape, that he is faine to alter his mansion with his 
manners, and to live where he can, not where he would." 

Lily's Euphues. 

I WAS always fond of visiting new scenes, and observ- 
ing strange characters and manners. Even when a mere 
child I began my travels, and made many tours of discovery 
Into foreign parts and unknown regions of my native city, 
to the frequent alarm of my parents and the emolument of 5 
the town-crier. As I grew into boyhood, I extended the 
range of my observations. My holiday afternoons were 
spent in rambles about the surrounding country. I made 
myself familiar with all its places famous In history or 
fable. I knew every spot where a murder or robbery had 10 
been committed, or a ghost seen. I visited the neighbor- 
ing villages, and added greatly to my stock of knowledge, 
by noting their habits and customs, and conversing with 
their sages and great men. I even journeyed one long 
summer's day to the summit of the most distant hill, 15 
whence I stretched my eye over many a mile of terra 
incognita, and was astonished to find how vast a globe I 
inhabited. 

II 



12 The Sketch Book 

This rambling propensity strengthened with my years. 
Books of voyages and travels became my passion, and 
in devouring their contents I neglected the regular exer- 
cises of the school. How wistfully would I wander 
5 about the pier-heads in fine weather, and watch the part- 
ing ships, bound to distant climes; with what longing 
eyes would I gaze after their lessening sails, and waft 
myself in imagination to the ends of the earth ! 

Further reading and thinking, though they brought 

10 this vague inclination into more reasonable bounds, only 
served to make it more decided. I visited various parts 
of my own country; and had I been merely a lover of 
fine scenery, I should have felt little desire to seek else- 
where its gratification, for on no country have the charms 

15 of nature been more prodigally lavished. Her mighty 
lakes, like oceans of liquid silver ; her mountains, with 
their bright aerial tints; her valleys, teeming with wild 
fertility; her tremendous cataracts, thundering in their 
solitudes; her boundless plains, waving with spontaneous 

20 verdure; her broad deep rivers, rolling in solemn silence 
to the ocean ; her trackless forests, where vegetation puts 
forth all its magnificence; her skies, kindling with the 
magic of summer clouds and glorious sunshine ; — no, never 
need an American look bej^ond his own country for the 

25 sublime and beautiful of natural scenery. 

But Europe held forth the charms of storied and 
poetical association. There w^re to be seen the master- 
pieces of art, the refinements of highly cultivated society, 
the quaint peculiarities of ancient and local custom. My 

30 native country was full of youthful promise: Europe was 
rich in the accumulated treasures of age. Her very ruins 
told the history of times gone by, and every mouldering 
stone was a chronicle. I longed to wander over the scenes 
of renowned achievement — to tread, as it were, in the foot- 



The Author's Account of Himself 13 

steps of antiquity — to loiter about the ruined castle — to 
meditate on the falling tower — to escape, in short, from 
the commonplace realities of the present, and lose myself 
among the shadowy grandeurs of the past. 

I had, beside all this, an earnest desire to see the great 5 
men of the earth. We have, it is true, our great men in 
America: not a city but has an ample share of them. I 
have mingled among them in my time, and been almost 
withered by the shade into w^hich they cast me; for there 
is nothing so baleful to a small man as the shade of a great 10 
one, particularly the great man of a city. But I was 
anxious to see the great men of Europe ; for I had read in 
the works of various philosophers, that all animals degener- 
ated in America, and man among the number. A great 
man of Europe, thought I, must therefore be as superior 15 
to a great man of America, as a peak of the Alps to a high- 
land of the Hudson, and in this idea I was confirmed, by 
observing the comparative importance and swelling magni- 
tude of many English travelers among us, who, I w^as as- 
sured, were very little people in their own country. I 20 
will visit this land of wonders, thought I, and see the 
gigantic race from which I am degenerated. 

It has been either my good or evil lot to have my roving 
passion .gratified. I have wandered through different coun- 
tries, and witnessed many of the shifting scenes of life. 25 
I cannot say that I have studied them with the eye of a 
philosopher; but rather with the sauntering gaze with 
which humble lovers of the picturesque stroll from the 
window of one print-shop to another; caught sometimes 
by the delineations of beauty, sometimes by the distortions 30 
of caricature, and sometimes by the loveliness of landscape. 
As it is the fashion for modern tourists to travel pencil in 
hand, and bring home their portfolios filled with sketches, 
I am disposed to get up a few for the entertainment of 



14 The Sketch Book 

my friends. When, however, I look over the hints and 
memorandums I have taken down for the purpose, my 
heart almost fails me at finding how my idle humor has 
led me aside from the great objects studied by every regu- 

5 lar traveler who would make a book. I fear I shall give 
equal disappointment w^ith an unlucky landscape painter, 
who had traveled on the continent, but, following the bent 
of his vagrant inclination, had sketched in nooks and 
corners and by-places. His sketch-book was accordingly 

10 crowded with cottages and landscapes and obscure ruins; 
but he had neglected to paint St. Peter's, or the Coliseum ; 
the Cascade of Terni, or the Bay of Naples; and had not a 
single glacier or volcano in his whole collection. 



THE VOYAGE 

Ships, ships, I will descrie you 

Amidst the main, 
I will come and try you, 
What you are protecting, 
And projecting. 

What's your end and aim. 
One goes abroad for merchandise and trading. 
Another stays to keep his country from invading, 
A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading. 
Halloo! my fancie, whither wilt thou go? 

Old Poem. 

To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has 
to make Is an excellent preparative. The temporary ab- 
sence of worldly scenes and employments produces a state 
of mind peculiarly fitted to receive new and vivid im- 
pressions. The vast space of waters that separates the 5 
hemispheres Is like a blank page In existence. There is 
no gradual transition, by which, as In Europe, the features 
and population of one country blend almost Imperceptibly 
with those of another. From the moment you lose sight 
of the land you have left, all is vacancy until you step 10 
on the opposite shore, and are launched at once into the 
bustle and novelties of another world. 

In traveling by land there Is a continuity of scene and 
a connected succession of persons and incidents, that carry 
on the story of life, and lessen the effect of absence and 15 
separation. We drag, It Is true, " a lengthening chain," 
at each remove of our pilgrimage; but the chain Is un- 

15 



1 6 The Sketch Book 

broken : we can trace it back link by link ; and we feel that 
the last still grapples us to home. But a wide sea voyage 
severs us at once. It makes us conscious of being cast loose 
from the secure anchorage of settled life, and sent adrift 
5 upon a doubtful world. It interposes a gulf, not merely 
imaginary, but real, between us and our homes — a gulf 
subject to tempest and fear and uncertainty, rendering dis- 
tance palpable, and return precarious. 

Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw 

10 the last blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud 
in the horizon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of 
the world and its concerns, and had time for meditation 
before I opened another. That land, too, now vanishing 
from my view, which contained all most dear to me in life; 

15 what vicissitudes might occur in it — what changes might 
take place in me, before I should visit it again ! /Who can 
tell, when he sets forth to wander, whither he may be 
driven by the uncertain currents of existence; or when 
he may return ; or whether it may ever be his lot to revisit 

20 the scenes of his childhood?/ 

I said that at sea all is vacancy; I should correct the 
expression. To one given to day-dreaming, and fond of 
losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects 
for meditation ; but then they are the wonders of the deep 

25 and of the air, and rather tend to abstract the mind from 
worldly themes. ( I delighted to loll over the quarter- 
railing, or climb ^0 the main-top of a calm day, and muse 
for hours together on the tranquil bosom of a summer's 
sea; to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peering 

30 above the horizon, fancy them some fairy realms, and 
people them with a creation of my own ; — to watch the 
gentle undulating billows, rolling their silver volumes, as 
if to die away on those happy shores. 

There was a delicious sensation of mingled security 



The Voyage 17 

and awe with which I looked down from my giddy height, 
on the monsters of the deep at their uncouth gambols. 
Shoals of porpoises tumbling about the bow of the ship; 
the grampus slowly heaving his huge form above the sur- 
face; or the ravenous shark, darting, like a specter, through 5 
the blue waters. My imagination would conjure up all 
that I had heard or read of the w^atery world beneath 
me ; of the finny herds that roam its fathomless valleys ; of 
the shapeless monsters that lurk among the very founda- 
tions of the earth ; and of those wild phantasms that swell 10 
the tales of fishermen and sailors. 

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the 
ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation. How 
interesting this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin 
the great mass of existence ! What a glorious monument 15 
of human invention, which has in a manner triumphed 
over wind and wave, has brought the ends of the u-orld 
Into communion, has established an interchange of bless- 
ings, pouring into the sterile regions of the north all the 
luxuries of the south, has diffused the light of knowledge 20 
and the charities of cultivated life, and has thus bound 
together those scattered portions of the human race be- 
tween which nature seemed to have thrown an insur- 
mountable barrier. 

We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at 25 
a distance. At sea everything that breaks the monotony 
of the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved 
to be the mast of a ship that must have been completely 
wrecked; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by 
which some of the crew had fastened themselves to this 30 
spar, to prevent their being washed ofif by the waves. 
There was no trace by which the name of the ship could 
be ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about 
for many months; clusters of shellfish had fastened about 



1 8 The Sketch Book 

it, and long seaweeds flaunted at its sides. But where, 
thought I, is the crew? Their struggle has long been 
over — they have gone down amidst the roar of the tem- 
pest — their bones lie whitening among the caverns of the 

5 deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed over 
them, and no one can tell the story of their end. What 
sighs have been wafted after that ship! what prayers 
offered up at the deserted fireside of home! How often 
has the mistress, the wife, the mother, pored over the 

10 daily news, to catch some casual intelligence of this rover 
of the deep ! How has expectation darkened into anxiety — 
anxiety into dread — and dread into despair! Alas! not 
one memento may ever return for love to cherish. All 
that may ever be known is, that she sailed from her port, 

island was never heard of more!" 

The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many 
dismal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the 
evening, when the weather, which had hitherto been fair, 
began to look wild and threatening, and gave indications 

20 of one of those sudden storms which will sometimes 
break in upon the serenity of a summer voyage. As we 
sat round the dull light of a lamp in the cabin, that made 
the gloom more ghastly, every one had his tale of ship- 
wreck and disaster. I was particularly struck with a 

25 short one related by the captain. 

'' As I was once sailing," said he, ** in a fine stout ship 
across the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy 
fogs which prevail in those parts rendered it impossible 
for us to see far ahead even in the daytime; but at night 

30 the weather was so thick that we could not distinguish 
any object at twice the length of the ship. I kept lights 
at the masthead, and a constant watch forward to look 
out for fishing smacks, which are accustomed to lie at 
anchor on the banks. The wind was blowing a smacking 



The Voyage 19 

breeze, and we were going at a great rate through 
the water. Suddenly the watch gave the alarm of * a 
sail ahead ! ' — it was scarcely uttered before we were upon 
her. She was a small schooner, at anchor, with her broad- 
side towards us. The crew were all asleep, and had 5 
neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just amidships. 
The force, the size, the weight of our vessel bore her 
down below the waves; we passed over her and were 
hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck was sinking 
beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half-naked 10 
wretches rushing from her cabin; they just started from 
their beds to be swallowed shrieking by the waves. I heard 
their drowning cry mingling with the wind. The blast 
that bore it to our ears swept us out of all farther hearing. 
I shall never forget that cry! It was some time before we 15 
could put the ship about, she was under such headway. 
We returned, as nearly as we could guess, to the place 
where the smack had anchored. We cruised about for sev- 
eral hours in the dense fog. We fired signal guns, and 
listened if we might hear the halloo of any survivors; but 20 
all was silent — we never saw or heard anything of them 
more." 

I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my 
fine fancies. The storm increased with the night. The 
sea was lashed into tremendous confusion. There was 25 
a fearful, sullen sound of rushing waves and broken 
surges. Deep called unto deep. At times the black column 
of clouds overhead seemed rent asunder by flashes of 
lightning which quivered along the foaming billows and 
made the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The 30 
thunders bellowed over the wild waste of waters, and 
were echoed and prolonged by the mountain waves. As 
I saw the ship staggering and plunging among these 
roaring caverns. It seemed miraculous that she regained 



20 The Sketch Book 

. her balance or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards would 
dip Into the water: her bow was almost buried beneath 
the waves. Sometimes an impending surge appeared 
ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but a dexterous 

5 movement of the helm preserved her from the shock. 

When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still fol- 
lowed me. The whistling of the wind through the rig- 
ging sounded like funereal wailings. The creaking of 
the masts, the straining and groaning of bulk-heads, as 

10 the ship labored in the weltering sea, were frightful. As 
I heard the waves rushing along the sides of the ship, 
and roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if Death were 
raging round this floating prison, seeking for his prey: 
the mere starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might 

15 give him entrance. 

A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring 
breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It 
is impossible to resist the gladdening influence of fine 
weather and fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked 

20 out in all her canvas, every sail swelled, and careering 
gayly over the curling waves, how lofty, how gallant she 
appears — how she seems to lord it over the deep! 

I might fill a volume with the reveries of a sea voyage, 
for with me it is almost a continual reverie — but it is 

25 time to get to shore. 

It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of 
"land! " was given from the mast head.^None but those 
who have experienced It can form an idea of the delicious 
throng of sensations which rush Into an American's 

30 bosom when he first comes In sight of Europe. There 
is a volume of associations with the very name. It is 
the land of promise, teeming with everything of which 
his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years 
have pondered. 



The Voyage 21 

From that time until the moment of arrival, it was all 
feverish excitement. The ships of war that prowled like 
guardian giants along the coast, the headlands of Ire- 
land stretching out into the channel, the Welsh moun- 
tains towering into the clouds, — all were objects of in- 5 
tense interest. As we sailed up the Merse}', I recon- 
noitered the shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt with 
delight on neat cottages, with their trim shubberies and 
green grass plots. I saw the mouldering ruin of an 
abbey overrun with ivy, and the taper spire of a village 10 
church rising from the brow of a neighboring hill, — all 
WTre characteristic of England. 

The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was 
enabled to come at once to the pier. It was thronged w^ith 
people; some, idle lookers-on, others, eager expectants of 15 
friends or relatives. I could distinguish the merchant to 
whom the ship was consigned. I knew him by his cal- 
culating brow and restless air. His hands were thrust 
into his pockets; he was whistling thoughtfully and 
w^alking to and fro, a small space having been accorded 20 
him by the crowd in deference to his temporary impor- 
tance. There were repeated cheerings and salutations 
interchanged between the shore and the ship, as friends 
happened to recognize each other. I particularly noticed 
one j'oung woman of humble dress but interesting de- 25 
meanor. She was leaning forward from among the crowd ; 
her e}^ hurried over the ship as it neared the shore, to 
catch some wished-for countenance. She seemed disap- 
pointed and agitated ; when I heard a faint voice call her 
name. It was from a poor sailor who had been ill all the 30 
voyage, and had excited the sympathy of every one on 
board. When the weather was fine, his messmates had 
spread a mattress for him on deck in the shade, but of late 
his illness had so increased that he had taken to his ham- 



2 2 The Sketch Book 

mock, ana only breathed a wish that he might see his 
wife before he died. He had been helped on deck as we 
came up the river, and was now leaning against the 
shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, 

5 that it was no wonder even the eye of affection did not 
recognize him. But at the sound of his voice, her eye 
darted on his features; it read at once a whole volume of 
sorrow; she clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and 
stood wringing them in silent agony. 

10 All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of ac- 
quaintances — the greetings of friends — the consultations 
of men of business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had 
no friend to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon 
the land of my forefathers — but felt that I was a stranger 
in the land. 




Rip Van Winkle's House, in the Catskills 



Reproduced from " Picturesque America," by 
permission of D. Appleton and Company. 



RIP VAN WINKLE . 

A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER 

By Woden, God of Saxons, 

From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, 

Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 

Unto thylke day in which I creep into 

My sepulchre 

Cartwright. 

[The following Tale was found among the papers of 
the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of 
New York who was very curious In the Dutch history of 
the province and the manners of the descendants from Its 
primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, 5 
did not He so much among books as among men ; for the 
former are lamentably scanty on his favorite topics; 
whereas he found the old burghers, and still more their 
wives, rich in that legendary lore so invaluable to true 
history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genu- 10 
ine Dutch family, snugly shut up In Its low-roofed farm- 
house, under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon It as 
a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied It with 
the zeal of a book-worm. 

The result of all these researches was a history of the 15 
province during the reign of the Dutch governors, which 
he published some years since. There have been various 
opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, to 
tell the truth, It is not a whit better than It should be. Its 

23 



24 The Sketch Book 

chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a 
little questioned on its first appearance, but has since been 
completely established; and it is now admitted into all 
historical collections as a book of unquestionable authority. 
5 The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of 
his work, and now that he is dead and gone it cannot do 
much harm to his memory to say that his time might 
have been much better employed in weightier labors. He, 
however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way; and 

10 though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in 
the eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the spirit of some 
friends for whom he felt the truest deference and affection ; 
yet his errors and follies are remembered *' more in sor- 
row than in anger," and it begins to be suspected that he 

15 never intended to injure or offend. But however his 
memory may be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear 
by many folks whose good opinion is well worth having; 
particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so 
far as to imprint his likeness on their new-year cakes ; and 

20 have thus given him a chance for immortality almost equal 
to the being stamped on a Waterloo Medal or a Queen 
Anne's Farthing.] 



Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must re- 
member the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismem- 

25 bered branch of the Appalachian family, and are seen 
away to the wTst of the river, swelling up to a noble 
height and lording it over the surrounding country. Every 
change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every 
hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues 

30 and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by 
all the good wives far and near as perfect barometers. 
When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in 



Rip Van Winkle 25 

blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear 
evening sky; but sometimes when the rest of the land- 
scape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors 
about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting 
sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory. 5 

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may 
have descried the light smoke curling up from a village 
whose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees just where the 
blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green 
of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great 10 
antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch 
colonists in the early times of the province, just about the 
beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant 
(may he rest in peace!), and there were some of the houses 
of the original settlers standing within a few years, built 15 
of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having lat- 
ticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weather- 
cocks. 

In that same village, and in one of these very houses 
(which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn 20 
and weather-beaten), there lived many years since, while 
the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple 
good-natured fellow of the name of Rip Van Winkle. 
He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so 
gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and 25 
accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He in- 
herited, however, but little of the martial character of his 
ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple good 
natured man ; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor and an 
obedient hen-pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter cir- 30 
cumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which 
gained him such universal popularity; for those men are 
most apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad who 
^re under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tern- 



2 6 The Sketch Book 

pers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the 
fiery furnace of domestic tribulation ; and a curtain lecture 
is worth all the sermons in the world for teaching 
the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant 
5 wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a tol- 
erable blessing; and if so. Rip Van Winkle was thrice 
blessed. 

Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all 
the good wives of the village, who as usual with the ami- 

10 able sex, took his part in all family squabbles; and never 
failed whenever they talked those matters over in their 
evening gossipings to lay all the blame on Dame Van 
Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout 
with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their 

15 sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and 
shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, 
witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about 
the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, hang- 
ing on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing 

20 a thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog 
would bark at him throughout the neighborhood. 

The great error in Rip's composition was an insuper- 
able aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could 
not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance; for he 

25 would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy 
as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, 
even though he should not be encouraged by a single nib- 
ble. He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for 
hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and 

30 up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild 
pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor 
even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all 
country frolics for husking Indian corn, or building stone- 
fences; the women of the village, too, used to employ him 



Rip Van Winkle 27 

to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their 
less obliging husbands would not do for them. In a word 
Rip was ready to attend to anybody's business but his own ; 
but as to doing family duty and keeping his farm in order, 
he found it impossible. 5 

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his 
farm; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in 
the whole country; everything about it went wrong, and 
would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were con- 
tinually falling to pieces; his cow would either go astray 10 
or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure to grow 
quicker in his fields than anywhere else; the rain always 
made a point of setting in just as he had some out-door 
work to do; so that though his patrimonial estate had 
dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, 15 
until there was little more left than a mere patch of 
Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst conditioned 
farm in the neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they 
belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten 20 
in his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with 
the old clothes of his father. He was generally seen troop- 
ing like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of 
his father's cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado 
to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in 25 
bad weather. 

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy 
mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the 
world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be 
got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve 30 
on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, 
he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; 
but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his 
idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on 



2 8 The Sketch Book 

his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was 
Incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure 
to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had 
but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and 
5 that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He 
shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but 
said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh 
volley from his wife; so that he was fain to draw off his 
forces, and take to the outside of the house — the only side 

10 which, In truth, belongs to a hen-pecked husband. 

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who 
was as much hen-pecked as his master; for Dame Van 
Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and even 
looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his 

15 master's going so often astray. True It Is, in all points of 
spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an 
animal as ever scoured the woods — but what courage can 
withstand the ever-during and all-besetting terrors of a 
woman's tongue? The moment Wolf entered the house 

20 his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground or curled be- 
tween his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, cast- 
ing many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at 
the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, he would fly to 
the door with yelping precipitation. 

25 Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as 
years of matrimony rolled on ; a tart temper never mellows 
with age, and a sharp tongue Is the only edged tool that 

. grows keener with constant use. For a long while he used 
to console himself, when driven from home, by frequent- 

30 ing a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and 
other idle personages of the village, which held Its sessions 
on a bench before a small Inn, designated by a rubicund 
portrait of His Majesty George the Third. Here they 
used to sit In the shade through a long lazy summer's day, 



Rip Van Winkle 29 

talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless 
sleepy stories about nothing. But It would have been 
worth any statesman's money to have heard the profound 
discussions that sometimes took place, when by chance an 
old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing 5 
traveler. How solemnly they would listen to the con- 
tents as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the school- 
master, a dapper learned little man, who was not to be 
daunted by the mo^t gigantic word in the dictionary; and 
how sagely they w^ould deliberate upon public events some 10 
months after they had taken place. 

The opinions of this junto were completely controlled 
by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and land- 
lord of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat 
from morning till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid 15 
the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree ; so that the 
neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as ac- 
curately as by a sun-dial. It is true he was rarely heard 
to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, 
however (for every great man has his adherents), per- 20 
fectly understood him, and knew how to gather his opin- 
ions. When anything that was read or related displeased 
him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and 
to send forth short, frequent, and angry puffs; but when 
pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, 25 
and emit it in light and placid clouds; and sometimes, 
taking the pipe from his mouth and letting the fragrant 
vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head in 
token of perfect approbation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at 30 
length routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly 
break In upon the tranquillity of the assemblage and call 
the members all to naught ; nor was that august personage, 
Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue 



30 The Sketch Book 

of this terrible virago, who charged him outright with 
encouraging her husband in habits of idleness. 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and 
his only alternative to escape from the labor of the farm 
5 and clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll 
away into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat him- 
self at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his 
wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow- 
sufferer in persecution. " Poor Wolf," he would say, " thy 

10 mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; but never mind, my 
lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand 
by thee!" Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in 
his master's face, and if dogs can feel pity I verily believe 
he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. 

15 In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, 
Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest 
parts of the Kaatskill mountains. He was after his favor- 
ite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes had 
echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his gun. Pant- 

20 ing and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, 
on a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that 
crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening be- 
tween the trees he could overlook all the lower country for 
many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the 

25 lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent 
but majestic course, with the reflection of a purple cloud 
or the sail of a lagging bark here and there sleeping on 
its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue high- 
lands. 

30 On the other side he looked down into a deep moun- 
tain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled 
with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely 
lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some 
time Rip lay musing on this scene ; evening was gradually 



Rip Van Winkle 31 

advancing; the mountains began to throw their long blue 
shadows over the valley ; he saw that it would be dark 
long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a 
heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors 
of Dame Van Winkle. 5 

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from 
a distance, hallooing, "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van 
Winkle! " He looked round, but could see nothing but a 
crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He 
thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned 10 
again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through 
the still evening air, "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van 
Winkle!" — at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, 
and giving a low growl, skulked to his master's side, look- 
ing fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague 15 
apprehension stealing over him ; he looked anxiously in 
the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly 
toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of 
something he carried on his back. He was surprised to 
see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place, 20 
but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in 
need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. 

On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the 
singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short 
square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a griz- 25 
zled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion 
— a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist — several pairs 
of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated 
with rows of buttons down the sides and bunches at the 
knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg that seemed 30 
full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and 
assist him with the load. Though rather shy and dis- 
trustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his 
usual alacrity; and mutually relieving one another, they 



32 The Sketch Book 

clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of 
a mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now 
and then heard long rolling peals, like distant thunder, 
that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, 
5 between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path con- 
ducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to 
be the muttering of one of those transient thunder- 
showers which often take place in mountain heights, he 
proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a 

10 hollow, like a small amphitheater, surrounded by per- 
pendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impend- 
ing trees shot their branches so that you only caught 
glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. 
During the whole time Rip and his companion had labored 

15 on in silence; for though the former marveled greatly what 
could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild 
mountain, yet there was something strange and incom- 
prehensible about the unknown that inspired awe and 
checked familiarity. 

20 On entering the amphitheater, new objects of wonder 
presented themselves. On the level spot in the center 
w^as a company of odd-looking personages playing at nine- 
pins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion ; 
some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives 

25 in their belts, and most of them had enormous breeches 
of similar style with that of the guide's. Their visages, 
too, were peculiar; one had a large beard, broad face, and 
small piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to consist 
entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar- 

30 loaf hat set off with a little red cock's tail. They all had 
beards of various shapes and colors. There w^as one who 
seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentle- 
man with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced 
doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and 



Rip Van Winkle 33 

feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes with roses In 
them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in 
an old Flemish painting in the parlor of Dominie Van 
Shaick, the village parson, and which had been brought 
over from Holland at the time of the settlement. 5 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though 
these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they 
maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, 
and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure 
he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness 10 
of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever 
they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rum- 
bling peals of thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them, they sud- 
denly desisted from their play, and stared at him with 15 
such fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, 
lack-luster countenances, that his heart turned within him, 
and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied 
the contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs 
to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear 20 
and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, 
and then returned to their game. 

By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He 
even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste 
the beverage, which he found had much the flavor of 25 
excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and 
was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste pro- 
voked another; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon 
so often that at length his senses were overpowered, his 
eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and 30 
he fell into a deep sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence 
he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed 
his eyes — it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were 



34 The Sketch Book 

hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle 
was wheeh'ng aloft, and breasting the pure mountain 
breeze. '' Surely," thought Rip, " I have not slept here 
all night." He recalled the occurrences before he fell 
5 asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor — the moun- 
tain ravine — the wild retreat among the rocks — the woe- 
begone party at nine-pins — the flagon — "Oh! that flagon! 
that wicked flagon ! " thought Rip — ** what excuse shall I 
make to Dame Van Winkle! " 

10. He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean 
well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by 
him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, 
and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the 
grave roysters of the mountain had put a trick upon him, 

15 and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of 
his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have 
strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled 
after him and shouted his name, but all in vain; the 
echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog w^as to 

20 be seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's 
gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand 
his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself 
stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. 

25 " These mountain beds do not agree with me," thought 
Rip, " and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the 
rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van 
Winkle." With some diflSculty he got down into the 
glen: he found the gully up which he and his companion 

30 had ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonish- 
ment a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leap- 
ing from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling 
murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its 
sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, 



Rip Van Winkle 35 

sassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes tripped up or 
entangled by the wild grapevines that twisted their coils 
or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of net- 
work in his path. 

At length he reached to where the ravine had opened 5 
through the cliffs to the amphitheater; but no traces of 
such opening remained. The rocks presented a high im- 
penetrable wall over which the torrent came tumbling in a 
sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep basin, 
black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, 10 
then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called 
and whistled after his dog; he was only answered by the 
cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about 
a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, 
secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scofiE 15 
at the poor man's perplexities. What was to be done? 
the morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for 
want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and 
gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to 
starve among the mountains. He shook his head, shoul- 20 
dered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of trouble 
and anxiety, turned his steps homeward. 

As he approached the village he met a number of peo- 
ple, but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised 
him, for he had thought himself acquainted with every 25 
one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a 
different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. 
They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and 
whenever they cast their eyes upon him invariably stroked 
their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture in- 30 
duced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his 
astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long! 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop 
of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, 



36 The Sketch Book 

and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one 
of which he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at 
him as he passed. The very village was altered ; it was 
larger and more populous. There were rows of houses 
5 w^hich he had never seen before, and those which had 
been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names 
were over the doors — strange faces at the windows — 
everything was strange. His mind now misgave him; he 
began to doubt whether both he and the world around him 

10 were not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, 
which he had left but the day before. There stood the 
Kaatskill mountains — there ran the silver Hudson at a 
distance — there was every hill and dale precisely as it had 
alwaj^s been — Rip was sorely perplexed — " That flagon 

15 last night," thought he, " has addled my poor head sadly! " 
It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his 
own house, which he approached with silent awe, expect- 
ing every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van 
Winkle. He found the house gone to decay — the roof 

20 fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the 
hinges. A half-starved dog that looked like Wolf was 
skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but the cur 
snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an 
unkind cut indeed — " My very dog," sighed poor Rip, 

25 "has forgotten me!" 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth. Dame 
Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, 
forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This desolateness 
overcame all his connubial fears — he called loudly for 

30 his wife and children — the lonely chambers rang for a 
moment with his voice, and then all again was silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, 
the village inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety 
wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping 



Rip Van Winkle 37 

windows, some of them broken and mended with old hats 
and petticoats, and over the door was painted, " the 
Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the 
great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn 
of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with 5 
something on the top that looked like a red night-cap, 
and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular 
assemblage of stars and stripes — all this was strange and 
incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, 
the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked 10 
so many a peaceful pipe; but even this was singularly 
metamorphosed. The red coat was changed <for one of 
blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a 
scepter, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and 
underneath was painted in large characters. General 15 
Washington. 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, 
but none that Rip recollected. The very character of the 
people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, 
disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed 20 
phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for 
the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double 
chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco-smoke 
instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the school- 
master, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. 25 
In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his 
pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently 
about rights of citizens — elections — members of congress — 
liberty — Bunker's Hill — heroes of seventy-six — and other 
words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the 30 
bewildered Van Winkle. 

The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, 
his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army 
of women and children at his heels, soon attracted the 



38 The Sketch Book 

attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded round 
him, eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity. 
The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly 
aside, inquired " on which side he voted?" Rip stared in 
5 vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow 
pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in 
his ear, "Whether he was Federal or Democrat?" Rip 
was equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a 
knowing, self-important old gentleman in a sharp cocked 

10 hat made his way through the crowd, putting them to the 
right and left with his elbow.s as he passed, and planting 
himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the 
other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat 
penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an 

15 austere tone, what brought him to the election with a gun 
on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he 
meant to breed a riot in the village? — "Alas! gentlemen," 
cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, " I am a poor quiet man, a 
native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God 

20 bless him! " 

Here a general shout burst from the by-standers — " A 
tory! a tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! away with 
him! " It was wath great difficulty that the self-important 
man in the cocked hat restored order ; and, having assumed 

25 a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the un- 
known culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was 
seeking? The poor man humbly assured him that he 
meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some 
of his neighbors who used to keep about the tavern. 

30 " Well — who are they? — name them." 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, 
"Where's Nicholas Vedder?" 

There was a silence for a little while, when an old man 
replied, in a thin piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder! why, 



Rip Van Winkle 39 

he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There was 
a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell 
all about him, but that's rotten and gone too." 

"Where's Brom Dutcher?" 

" Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the 5 
war; some say he was killed at the storming of Stony 
Point — others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot 
of Anthony's Nose. I don't know — he never came back 
again." 

"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" 10 

" He went off to the wars too, was a great militia gen- 
eral, and is now in congress." 

Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes 
in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone 
in the world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treat- 15 
ing of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters 
w^hich he could not understand: war — congress — Stony 
Point; — he had no courage to ask after any more friends, 
but cried out in despair, " Does nobody here know Rip 
Van Winkle? " 20 

" Oh, Rip Van Winkle! " exclaimed two or three, " Oh, 
to be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against 
the tree." 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of him- 
self, as he went up the mountain ; apparently as lazy, 25 
and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now com- 
pletely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and 
whether he was himself or another man. In the midst 
of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded 
who he was, and what w^as his name? 30 

"God know^s," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm 
not myself — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no 
- — that's somebody else got into my shoes — I was myself 
last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've 



40 The Sketch Book 

changed my gun, and everything's changed, and I'm 

changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am! " 

The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, 

wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their fore- 

5 heads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the 

gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at 

the very suggestion of which the self-important man in 

the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this 

critical moment a fresh comely woman pressed through 

10 the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She 

had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his 

looks, began to cry. " Hush, Rip," cried she, " hush, you 

little fool; the old man won't hurt you." The name of 

the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, 

15 all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. " What 

is your name, my good woman?" asked he. 

"Judith Gardenier." 

"And your father's name?" 

" Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's 
20 twenty years since he went away from home with his 
gun, and never has been heard of since — his dog came 
home without him; but whether he shot himself, or was 
carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then 
but a little girl." 
25 Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it 
with a faltering voice: 
. " Where's your mother ? " 

"Oh, she too had died but a snort time since; she 
broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England 
30 peddler." 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelli- 
gence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. 
He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. " I 
am your father!" cried he — "Young Rip Van Winkle 



Rip Van Winkle 41 

once — old Rip Van Winkle now! — Does nobody know 
poor Rip Van Winkle?" 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out 
from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and 
peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, 5 
"Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself! 
Welcome home again, old neighbor — Why, where have 
you been these twenty long years?" 

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years 
had been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared 10 
when they heard it; some were seen to wink at each 
other, and put their tongues in their cheeks; and the 
self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the 
alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down 
the corners of his mouth, and shook his head — upon which 15 
there was a general shaking of the head throughout the 
assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old 
Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up 
the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that 20 
name who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the prov- 
ince. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the vil- 
lage, and well versed in all the wonderful events and 
traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected Rip at 
once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory 25 
manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, 
handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the 
Kaatskill mountains had always been haunted by strange 
beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick 
Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, 30 
kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his 
crew of the Half-moon; being permitted in this way to 
revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian 
eye upon the river and the great city called by his name. 



42 The Sketch Book 

That his father had once seen them in their old Dutch 
dresses pla3'ing at nine-pins in a hollow of the mountain ; 
and that he himself had heard one summer afternoon 
the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder. 
5 To make a long story short, the company broke up, 
and returned to the more important concerns of the elec- 
tion. Rip's daughter took him home to live with her; 
she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout cheery 
farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the 

10 urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son 
and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning 
against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm ; 
but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to anything 
else but his business. 

15 Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon 
found many of his former cronies, though all rather the 
worse for the wear and tear of time; and preferred making 
friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon 
grew into great favor. 

20 Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at 
that happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, 
he took his place once more on the bench at the inn door, 
and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, 
and a chronicle of the old times " before the war." It 

25 was some time before he could get into the regular track 
of gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange 
events that had taken place during his torpor. How that 
there had been a revolutionary war — that the country 
had thrown off the yoke of old England — and that in- 

30 stead of being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, 
he vv^as now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, 
in fact, was no politician ; the changes of states and em- 
pires made but little impression on him ; but there was 
one species of despotism under which he had long groaned. 



Rip Van Winkle 43 

and that was — petticoat government. Happily that was 
at an end; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matri- 
mony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased with- 
out dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. When- 
ever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, 5 
shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes; which might 
pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate or 
joy at his deliverance. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived 
at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed at first to 10 
vary on some points every time he told it, which was 
doubtless owing to. his having so recently awaked. It 
at last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, 
and not a man, woman, or child in the neighborhood but 
knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the 15 
reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his 
head, and that this was one point on which he always 
remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, 
almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this day 
they never hear a thunderstorm of a summer afternoon 20 
about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and 
his crew are at their game of nine-pins; and it is a com- 
mon wish of all hen-pecked husbands in the neighbor- 
hood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they 
might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's 25 
flagon. 

NOTE 

The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to 
Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the Em- 
peror Frederick der Rothbart, and the Kyffhauser Mountain: the 
subjoined note, however, which he had appended to the tale, 30 
shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity: 

" The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, 
but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity 



44 The Sketch Book 

of our old Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvel- 
ous events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many 
stranger stories than this, in the villages along the Hudson; all 
of which were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I 
5 have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I 
saw him, was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly ra- 
tional and consistent on every other point that I think no con- 
scientious person could refuse to take this into the bargain; nay, 
1 have seen a certificate on the subject taken before a country 
10 justice and signed with a cross in the justice's own handwriting. 
The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt. 

D. K." 



POSTSCRIPT 

The following are traveling not^s from a memorandum- 
book of Mr. Knickerbocker: 

The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have always been a 

15 region full of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of 
spirits, who influenced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds 
over the landscape, and sending good or bad hunting seasons. 
They were ruled by an old squaw spirit, said to be their mother. 
She dwelt on the highest peak of the Catskills, and had charge 

20 of the doors of day and night to open and shut them at the 
proper hour. She hung up the new moons in the skies, and cut 
up the old ones into stars. In times of drought, if properly 
propitiated, she would spin light summer clouds out of cobwebs 
and morning dew, and send them off from the crest of the moun- 

25 tain, flake after flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to float in the 
air; until, dissolved by the heat of the sun, they would fall in 
gentle showers, causing the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, 
and the corn to grow an inch an hour. If displeased, however, 
she would brew up clouds black as ink, sitting in the midst of 

30 them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of its web; and 
when these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys! 

In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of 
Manitou or Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the 
Catskill Mountains, and took a mischievous pleasure in wreak- 
ing all kinds of evils and vexations upon the red men. Some- 



Rip Van Winkle 45 

times he would assume the form of a bear, a panther, or a deer, 
lead the bewildered hunter a weary chase through tangled 
forests and among ragged rocks; and then spring off with a 
loud ho! ho! leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling 
precipice or raging torrent. 5 

The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a 
great rock or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, 
from the flowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild 
flowers which abound in its neighborhood, is known by the 
name of the Garden Rock. Near the foot of it is a small lake, 10 
the haunt of the solitary bittern, with water-snakes basking in 
the sun on the leaves of the pond-lilies which lie on the sur- 
face. This place was held in great awe by the Indians, inso- 
much that the boldest hunter would not pursue his game within 
its precincts. Once upon a time, however, a hunter who had 15 
lost his way, penetrated to the garden rock, where he beheld 
a number of gourds placed in the crotches of trees. One of 
these he seized and made off with it, but in the hurry of his 
retreat he let it fall among the rocks, when a great stream 
gushed forth, which washed him away and swept him down 20 
precipices, where he was dashed to pieces, and the stream made 
its way to the Hudson, and continues to flow to the present day; 
being the identical stream known by the name of the Kaaters- 
kill. 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND 

Oh ! friendly to the best pursuits of man, 
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace. 
Domestic life in rural pleasures past! 

-COWPER. 

The stranger who would form a correct opinion of the 
Engh'sh character must not confine his observations to 
the metropolis. He must go forth into the country; he 
must sojourn in villages and hamlets; he must visit castles, 
5 villas, farmhouses, cottages; he must wander through parks 
and gardens ; along hedges and green lanes ; he must loiter 
about country churches; attend wakes and fairs and other 
rural festivals; and cope with the people in all their con- 
ditions and all their habits and humors. 

10 In some countries the large cities absorb the wealth 
and fashion of the nation ; they are the only fixed abodes 
of elegant and intelligent society, and the country is in- 
habited almost entirely by boorish peasantry. In Eng- 
land, on the contrary, the metropolis is a mere gathering- 

T5 place, or general rendezvous, of the polite classes, where 
they devote a small portion of the year to a hurry of 
gayety and dissipation, and, having indulged this kind of 
carnival, return again to the apparently more congenial 
habits of rural life. The various orders of society are 

20 therefore diffused over the whole surface of the kingdom, 
and the most retired neighborhoods afford specimens of the 
different ranks. 

The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural 
46 



Rural Life in England 47 

feeling. They possess a quick sensibility to the beau- 
ties of nature and a keen relish for the pleasures and 
employments of the country. This passion seems inherent 
in them. Even the inhabitants of cities, born and brought 
up among brick walls and bustling streets, enter with 5 
facility into rural habits, and evince a tact for rural occu- 
pation. The merchant has his snug retreat in the vicinity 
of the metropolis, where he often displays as much pride 
and zeal In the cultivation of his flower-garden and the 
maturing of his fruits, as he does in the conduct of his 10 
business and the success of a commercial enterprise. Even 
those less fortunate individuals who are doomed to pass 
their lives in the midst of din and traffic, contrive to have 
something that shall remind them of the green aspect of 
nature. In the most dark and dingy quarters of the city, 15 
the drawing-room window resembles frequently a bank 
of flowers; every spot capable of vegetation has its grass- 
plot and flower-bed ; and every square its mimic park, laid 
out with picturesque taste and gleaming with refreshing 
verdure. 20 

Those who see the Englishman only in town are apt 
to form an unfavorable opinion of his social character. 
He is either absorbed in business, or distracted by the 
thousand engagements that dissipate time, thought, and 
feeling, in this huge metropolis. He has, therefore, too 25 
commonly a look of hurry and abstraction. Wherever he 
happens to be, he is on the point of going somewhere 
else; at the moment he is talking on one subject, his 
mind is wandering to another; and while paying a friendly 
visit, he is calculating how he shall economize time so as 30 
to pay the other visits allotted to the morning. An im- 
mense metropolis like London is calculated to make men 
selfish and uninteresting. In their casual and transient 
meetings they can but deal briefly in commonplaces. They 



'48 The Sketch Book 

present but the cold superficies of character — its rich and 
genial qualities have no time to be warmed into a flow. 

It is in the country that the Englishman gives scope to 
his natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the 

5 cold formalities and negative civilities of town ; throws 
off his habits of shy reserve, and becomes joyous and free- 
hearted. He manages to collect round him all the con- 
veniences and elegancies of polite life, and to banish its 
restraints. His country-seat abounds with every requisite, 

10 either for studious retirement, tasteful gratification, or 
rural exercise. Books, paintings, music, horses, dogs, and 
sporting implements of all kinds, are at hand. He puts 
no constraint either upon his guests or himself, but in the 
true spirit of hospitality provides the means of enjoyment, 

15 and leaves every one to partake according to his inclination. 

The taste of the English in the cultivation of land, and 

in what is called landscape gardening, is unrivaled. They 

have studied nature intently, and discover an exquisite 

sense of her beautiful forms and harmonious combinations. 

20 Those charms, which in other countries she lavishes in 
wild solitudes, are here assertibled round the haunts of 
domestic life. They seem to have caught her coy and 
furtive graces, and spread them like witchery about their 
rural abodes. 

25 Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence 
of English park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like 
sheets of vivid green, with here and there clumps of gigan- 
tic trees heaping up rich piles of foliage; the solemn 
pomp of groves and woodland glades with the deer troop- 

30 ing in silent herds across them, the hare bounding away 
to the covert, or the pheasant suddenly bursting upon the 
wing; the brook, taught to wind in natural meanderings 
or expand into a glassy lake; the sequestered pool, reflect- 
ing the quivering trees, with the yellow leaf sleeping on its 



Rural Life In England 49 

bosom, and the trout roaming fearlessly about its limpid 
waters; while some rustic temple or sylvan statue, grown 
green and dank with age, gives an air of classic sanctity 
to the seclusion. 

These are but a few of the features of park scenery; 5 
but what most delights me is the creative talent with 
which the English decorate the unostentatious abodes of 
middle life. The rudest habitation, the most unpromis- 
ing and scanty portion of land, in the hands of an Eng- 
lishman of taste, becomes a little paradise. With a nicely 10 
discriminating eye, he seizes at once upon its capabilities, 
and pictures in his mind the future landscape. The sterile 
spot grows into loveliness under his hand ; and yet the 
operations of art which produce the effect are scarcely to 
be perceived. The cherishing and training of some trees; 15 
the cautious pruning of others; the nice distribution of 
flowers and plants of tender and graceful foliage; the in- 
troduction of a green slope of velvet turf; the partial open- 
ing to a peep of blue distance or silver gleam of water: 
all these are managed with a delicate tact, a pervading yet 20 
quiet assiduity, like the magic touchings with which a 
painter finishes up a favorite picture. 

The residence of people of fortune and refinement in 
the country has diffused a degree of taste and elegance 
in rural economy that descends to the lowest class. The 25 
very laborer, with his thatched cottage and narrow slip 
of ground, attends to their embellishment. The trim 
hedge, the grass-plot before the door, the little flower- 
bed bordered with snug box, the woodbine trained up 
against the wall and hanging its blossoms about the lattice, 30 
the pot of flowers in the window, the holly providently 
planted about the house to cheat winter of its dreariness, 
and to throw in a semblance of green summer to cheer the 
fireside: all these bespeak the influence of taste, flowing 



50 The Sketch Book 

down from high sources, and pervading the lowest levels of 
the public mind. If ever Love, as poets sing, delights to visit 
a cottage, it must be the cottage of an English peasant. 
The fondness for rural life among the higher classes 
5 of the English has had a great and salutary effect upon 
the national character. I do not know a finer race of 
men than the English gentlemen. Instead of the softness 
and effeminacy which characterize the men of rank in most 
countries, they exhibit a union of elegance and strength, 

10 a robustness of frame and freshness of complexion, which 
I am inclined to attribute to their living so much in the 
open air, and pursuing so eagerly the invigorating recrea- 
tions of the country. These hardy exercises produce also 
a healthful tone of mind and spirits, and a manliness and 

15 simplicity of manners, which even the follies and dissipa- 
tions of the town cannot easily pervert, and can never en- 
tirely destroy. In the country, too, the different orders 
of society seem to approach more freely, to be more dis- 
posed to blend and operate favorably upon each other. 

20 The distinctions between them do not appear to be so 
marked and impassable as in the cities. The manner in 
which property has been distributed into small estates and 
farms has established a regular gradation from the noble- 
man, through the classes of gentry, small landed pro- 

25 prietors, and substantial farmers, down to the laboring 
peasantry ; and while it has thus banded the extremes of 
society together, has infused into each intermediate rank 
a spirit of independence. This, it must be confessed, is not 
so universally the case at present as it was formerly; the 

30 larger estates having, in late years of distress, absorbed the 
smaller, and, in some parts of the country, almost anni- 
hilated the sturdy race of small farmers. These, however, 
I believe, are but casual breaks in the general system I 
have mentioned. 



Rural Life In England 51 

In rural occupation there is nothing mean and debas- 
ing. It leads a man forth among scenes of natural 
grandeur and beauty ; it leaves him to the workings of his 
own mind, operated upon by the purest and most elevat- 
ing of external influences. Such a man may be simple and 5 
rough, but he cannot be vulgar. The man of refinement, 
therefore, finds nothing revolting in an intercourse with 
the lower orders in rural life, as he does when he casually 
mingles with the lower orders of cities. He lays aside his 
distance and reserve, and is glad to waive the distinctions 10 
of rank, and to enter into the honest, heartfelt enjoy- 
ments of common life. Indeed the very amusements of the 
country bring men more and more together ; and the sound 
of hound and horn blend all feelings into harmony. I be- 
lieve this is one great reason why the nobility and gentry 15 
are more popular among the inferior orders in England 
than they are in any other country; and w^hy the latter 
have endured so many excessive pressures and extremities, 
w^ithout repining more generally at the unequal distribu- 
tion of fortune and privilege. 20 

To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may 
also be attributed the rural feeling that runs through 
British literature; the frequent use of illustrations from 
rural life ; those incomparable descriptions of nature that 
abound in the British poets, that have continued dow^n 25 
from The Flower and the Leaf of Chaucer, and have 
brought into our closets all the freshness and fragrance 
of the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of other 
countries appear as If they had paid nature an occa- 
sional visit, and become acquainted with her general 30 
charms; but the British poets have lived and reveled with 
her — they have wooed her in her most secret haunts — they 
have watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not 
tremble in the breeze — a leaf could not rustle to the 



52 The Sketch Book 

ground — the diamond drop could not patter in the stream 
— a fragrance could not exhale from the humble violet, 
nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning, but 
it has been noticed by these impassioned and delicate ob- 

5 servers, and wrought up into some beautiful morality. 
The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural 
occupations has been wonderful on the face of the coun- 
try. A great part of the island is rather level, and would 
be monotonous were it not for the charms of culture: 

10 but it is studded and gemmed, as it were, with castles 
and palaces, and embroidered with parks and gardens. 
It does not abound in grand and sublime prospects, but 
rather in little home scenes of rural repose and sheltered 
quiet. Every antique farmhouse and moss-grown cottage 

15 is a picture ; and as the roads are continually winding, 
and the view is shut in by groves and hedges, the eye is 
delighted by a continual succession of small landscapes of 
captivating loveliness. 

The great charm, however, of English scenery is the 

20 moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It is associated 
in the mind with ideas of order, of quiet, of sober well- 
established principles, of hoary usage and reverend cus- 
tom. Everything seems to be the growth of ages of regu- 
lar and peaceful existence. The old church of remote 

25 architecture, with its low massive portal, its Gothic tower, 
its windows rich with tracery and painted glass, in scrupu- 
lous preservation, its stately monuments of warriors and 
worthies of the olden time, ancestors of the present lords 
of the soil, its tombstones recording successive generations 

30 of sturdy yeomanry whose progeny still plough the same 
fields and kneel at the same altar; the parsonage, a quaint 
irregular pile, partly antiquated, but repaired and altered 
in the tastes of various ages and occupants; the stile, 
and footpath leading from the churchyard across pleasant 



Rural Life in England 53 

fields and along shady hedgerows, according to an im- 
memorial right of way ; the neighboring village, with its 
venerable cottages, its public green sheltered by trees, under 
which the forefathers of the present race have sported ; the 
antique family mansion, standing apart in some little rural 5 
domain, but looking down with a protecting air on the 
surrounding scene: all these common features of English 
landscape evince a calm and settled security, an hereditary 
transmission of homebred virtues and local attachments, 
that speak deeply and touchingly for the moral character 10 
of the nation. 

It is a pleasing sight of a Sunday morning, when the 
bell is sending its sober melody across the quiet fields, to 
behold the peasantry in their best finery, with ruddy faces 
and modest cheerfulness, thronging tranquilly along the 15 
green lanes to church; but it is still more pleasing to see 
them in the evenings, gathering about their cottage doors, 
and appearing to exult in the humble comforts and em- 
bellishments which their own hands have spread around 
them. 20 

It is this sweet home feeling, this settled repose of 
affection in the domestic scene, that is, after all, the parent 
of the steadiest virtues and purest enjoyments; and I can- 
not close these desultory remarks better, than by quoting 
the words of a modern English poet, who has depicted it 25 
with remarkable felicity: 

Through each gradation, from the castled hall, 

The city dome, the villa crown'd with shade, 

But chief from modest mansions numberless, 

In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life, 30 

Down to the cottaged vale and straw-roof'd shed; 

This western isle hath long been famed for scenes 

Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place; 

Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove, 



54 The Sketch Book 

(Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard,) 

Can center in a little quiet nest 

All that desire would fly for through the earth; 

That can, the world eluding, be itself 

A world enjoy'd; that wants no witnesses 

But its own sharers and approving heaven ; 

That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft, 

Smiles, though 'tis looking only at the sky/ 

^ From a Poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the 
Reverend Rann Kennedy, A.M. 



THE BROKEN HEART 

I never heard 
Of any true affection, but 'twas nipt 
With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats 
The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose. 

MiDDLETON. 

It is a common practice with those who have outlived 
the susceptibility of early feeling, or have been brought 
up in the gay heartlessness of dissipated life, to laugh at 
all love stories, and to treat the tales of romantic passion 
as mere fictions of novelists and poets. Aly observations 5 
on human nature have induced me to think otherwise. 
They have convinced me, that however the surface of the 
character may be chilled and frozen by the cares of the 
world, or cultivated into mere smiles by the arts of society, 
still there are dormant fires lurking in the depths of the 10 
coldest bosom, which, when once enkindled, become im- 
petuous, and are sometimes desolating in their effects. 
Indeed, I am a true believer in the blind deity, and go 
to the full extent of his doctrines. Shall I confess it — I 
believe in broken hearts, and the possibility of dying of 15 
disappointed love. I do not, however, consider it a malady 
often fatal to my own sex ; but I firmly believe that it 
withers down many a lovely woman into an early grave. 

Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His 
nature leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the 20 
world. Love is but the embellishment of his early life, 
or a song piped in the intervals of the acts. He seeks 

55 



^6 The Sketch Book 

for fame, for fortune, for space in the world's thought, 
and dominion over his fellow-men. But a woman's whole 
life is a history of the affections. The heart is her world : 
it is there her ambition strives for empire; it is there her 
5 avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her 
sympathies on adventure; she embarks her whole soul in 
the traffic of affection; and if shipwrecked, her case is 
hopeless — for it is a bankruptcy of the heart. 

To a man the disappointment of love may occasion 

10 some bitter pangs : it wounds some feelings of tenderness — 
it blasts some prospects of felicity ; but he is an active 
being — he may dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied 
occupation, or may plunge into the tide of pleasure; or, if 
the scene of disappointment be too full of painful associa- 

15 tions, he can shift his abode at will, and taking as it were 
the wings of the morning, can " fly to the uttermost parts 
of the earth, and be at rest." 

But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and 
meditative life. She is more the companion of her own 

20 thoughts and feelings ; and if they are turned to ministers 
of sorrow, where shall she look for consolation? Her lot 
is to be wooed and won; and if unhappy in her love, her 
heart is like some fortress that has been captured and 
sacked and abandoned, and left desolate. 

25 How many bright eyes grow dim — how many soft 
cheeks grow pale — how many lovely forms fade away 
into the tomb, and none can tell the cause that blighted 
their loveliness! As the dove will clasp its wings to its 
side, and cover and conceal the arrow that is preying on its 

30 vitals, so is it the nature of woman to hide from the world 
the pangs of wounded affection. The love of a delicate 
female is always shy and silent. Even when fortunate, 
she scarcely breathes it to herself; but when otherwise, 
she buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and there lets 



The Broken Heart 57" 

it cower and brood among the ruins of her peace. With 
her the desire of the heart has failed. The great charm 
of existence is at an end. She neglects all the cheerful 
exercises which gladden the spirits, quicken the pulses, 
and send the tide of life in healthful currents through the 5 
veins. Her rest is broken — the sweet refreshment of 
sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams — " dry sorrow 
drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame sinks under 
the slightest external injury. Look for her, after a little 
while, and you find friendship weeping over her untimely 10 
grave, and wondering that one who but lately glowed with 
all the radiance of health and beauty should so speedily 
be brought down to " darkness and the worm." You will 
be told of some wintry chill, some casual indisposition, 
that laid her low; — but no one knows of the mental mal- 15 
ady which previously sapped her strength, and made her 
so easy a prey to the spoiler. 

She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of 
the grove ; graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but 
with the worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly 20 
withering, when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. 
We see it drooping its branches to the earth, and shed- 
ding leaf by leaf, until, wasted and perished away, it 
falls even in the stillness of the forest ; and as we muse over 
the beautiful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the blast 25 
or thunderbolt that could have smitten it with decay. 

I have seen many instances of women running to waste 
and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the 
earth, almost as if they had been exhaled to heaven ; and 
have repeatedly fancied that I could trace their death 30 
through the various declensions of consumption, cold, de- 
bility, languor, melancholy, until I reached the first symp- 
tom of disappointed love. But an instance of the kind 
was lately told to me; the circumstances are well known 



58 The Sketch Book 

in the country where they happened, and I shall but give 
them in the manner in which they were related. 

Every one must recollect the tragical story of young 

E , the Irish patriot; it was too touching to be soon 

5 forgotten. During the troubles in Ireland, he was tried, 
condemned, and executed, on a charge of treason. His 
fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. He was 
so young — so intelligent — so generous — so brave — so 
everything that we are apt to like in a young man. His 

10 conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The 
noble indignation with which he repelled the charge of 
treason against his country — the eloquent vindication of 
his name — and his pathetic appeal to posterity in the hope- 
less hour of condemnation, — all these entered deeply into 

15 every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented the 
stern policy that dictated his execution. 

But there was one heart whose anguish it would be im- 
possible to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes, 
he had won the affections of a beautiful and interesting 

20 girl, the daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. 
She loved him with the disinterested fervor of a woman's 
first and early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed 
itself against him; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace 
and danger darkened around his name, she loved him the 

25 more ardently for his very sufferings. If, then, his fate 
could awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what must 
have been the agony of her whose whole soul was occupied 
by his image ! Let those tell who have had the portals of 
the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being 

30 they most loved on earth — who have sat at its threshold, 
as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, whence all 
that was most lovely and loving had departed. 

But then the horrors of such a grave ! so frightful, so 
dishonored! there was nothing for memory to dwell on 



The Broken Heart 59 

that could soothe tlie pang of separation — none of those 
tender though melancholy circumstances, which endear the 
parting scene — nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed 
tears, sent like the dews of heaven to revive the heart in 
the parting hour of anguish. 5 

To render her widowed situation more desolate, she 
had incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate 
attachment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But 
could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached 
a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have 10 
experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a peo- 
ple of quick and generous sensibilities. The most delicate 
and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of 
^^•ealth and distinction. She was led into society, and 
they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to 15 
dissipate her grief, and wean her from the tragical story 
of her loves. But it was all in vain. There are some 
strokes of calamity which scathe and scorch the soul — 
which penetrate to the vital seat of happiness — and blast 
it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never ob- 20 
jected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but was as much 
alone there as in the depths of solitude; walking about in 
a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around 
her. She carried with her an inward woe that mocked at 
all the blandishments of friendship, and '* heeded not the 25 
song of the charmer, charm he never so wisely." 

The person who told me her story had seen her at a 
masquerade. There can be no. exhibition of far-gone 
wretchedness more striking and painful than to meet it 
in such a scene. To find it wandering like a specter, 30 
lonely and joyless, where all around is gay — to see it 
dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so 
wan and woe-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat 
the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. 



6o The Sketch Book 

After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy 
crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself 
down on the steps of an orchestra, and looking about for 
some time with a vacant air that showed her insensibility 
5 to the garish scene, she began, with the capriciousness of 
a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an 
exquisite voice; but on this occasion it was so simple, so 
touching, it breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness, 
that she drew a crowd mute and silent around her, and 

10 melted every one into tears. 

The story of one so true and tender could not but 
excite great interest in a country remarkable for enthu- 
siasm. It completely won the heart of a brave officer, 
who paid his addresses to her, and thought that one so 

15 true to the dead could not but prove affectionate to the 
living. She declined his attentions, for her thoughts were 
irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her former lover. 
He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her 
tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by her con- 

20 viction of his worth and her sense of her own destitute 
and dependent situation, for she was existing on the kind- 
ness of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in 
gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance that 
her heart was unalterably another's. 

25 He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change 
of scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. 
She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an 
effort to be a happy .one ; but nothing could cure the 
silent and devouring melancholy that had entered into 

30 her very soul. She wasted away in a slow, but hopeless 
decline, and at length sank into the grave, the victim of a 
broken heart. 

It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, 
composed the following lines: 



The Broken Heart 6i 

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, 

And lovers around her are sighing; 
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 

For her heart in his grave is lying. 

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, 5 

Every note which he loved awaking — 
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains. 

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking! 

He had lived for his love — for his country he died, 

They were all that to life had entwined him — 10 

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 
Nor long will his love stay behind him! 

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, 

When they promise a glorious morrow ; 
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, 15 

From her own loved island of sorrow^ 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING 

" If that severe doom of Synesius be true — ' It is a greater of- 
fence to steal dead men's labor, than their clothes,' what shall be- 
come of most writers?" 

Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. 

I HAVE often wondered at the extreme fecundity of 
the press, and how it comes to pass that so many heads 
on which nature seemed to have inflicted the curse of 
barrenness should teem with voluminous productions. As 
5 a man travels on, however, in the journey of life, his 
objects of wonder daily diminish, and he is continually 
finding out some very simple cause for some great matter 
of marvel. Thus have I chanced, in my peregrinations 
about this great metropolis, to blunder upon a scene which 

lo unfolded to me some of the mysteries of the book-making 
craft, and at once put an end to my astonishment. 

I was one summer's day loitering through the great 
saloons of the British Museum, with that listlessness with 
which one is apt to saunter about a museum in warm 

15 weather; sometimes lolling over the glass cases of minerals, 
sometimes studying the hieroglyphics on an Eg}'ptian 
mummy, and sometimes trying with nearly equal success 
to comprehend the allegorical paintings on the lofty ceil- 
ings. Whilst I was gazing about in this idle way, my 

20 attention was attracted to a distant door at the end of a 
suite of apartments. It was closed, but every now and 
then it would open, and some strange-favored being, gen- 
erally clothed in black, would steal forth and glide through 

62 



The Art of Book-Making 63 

the rooms without noticing anj' of the surrounding objects. 
There was an air of mystery about this that piqued my 
languid curiosity, and I determined to attempt the pas- 
sage of that strait, and to explore the unknown regions 
beyond. The door yielded to my hand with that facility 5 
with which the portals of enchanted castles yield to the 
adventurous knight-errant. I found myself in a spacious 
chamber, surrounded with great cases of venerable books. 
Above the cases, and just under the cornice, were ar- 
ranged a great number of black-looking portraits of ancient 10 
authors. About the room were placed long tables, with 
stands for reading and writing, at which sat many pale, 
studious personages, poring intently over dusty volumes, 
rummaging among mouldy manuscripts, and taking copi- 
ous notes of their contents. A hushed stillness reigned 15 
through this mysterious apartment, excepting that you 
might hear the racing of pens over sheets of paper, or occa- 
sionally the deep sigh of one of these sages, as he shifted 
his position to turn over the page of an old folio; doubt- 
less arising from, that hollowness and flatulency incident 20 
to learned research. 

Now and then one of these personages would write 
something on a small slip of paper, and ring a bell ; where- 
upon a familiar would appear, take the paper in profound 
silence, glide out of the room, and return shortly loaded 25 
with ponderous tomes, upon which the other would fall 
tooth and nail with famished voracity. I had no longer a 
doubt that I had happened upon a body of magi, deeply 
engaged in the study of occult sciences. The scene re- 
minded me of an old Arabian tale, of a philosopher shut 30 
up in an enchanted library in the bosom of a mountain, 
which opened only once a year ; where he made the spirits 
of the place bring him books of all kinds of dark knowl- 
edge, so that at the end of the year, when the magic portal 



64 The Sketch Book 

once more swung open on its hinges, he issued forth so 
versed in forbidden lore, as to be able to soar above the 
heads of the multitude, and to control the powers of 
nature. 
5 My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whispered to 
one of the familiars as he was about to leave the room, 
and begged an interpretation of the strange scene before 
me. A few words were sufficient for the purpose. I found 
that these mysterious personages, whom I had mistaken 

10 for magi, were principally authors, and in the very act of 
manufacturing books. I was, in fact, in the reading-room 
of the great British Library — an immense collection of 
volumes of all ages and languages, many of which are 
now forgotten, and most of which are seldom read : one of 

15 these sequestered pools of obsolete literature, to which 
modern authors repair, and draw buckets full of classic 
lore, or " pure English, undefiled," wherewith to swell 
their own scanty rills of thought. 

Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a 

20 corner, and watched the process of this book manufac- 
tory. I noticed one lean, bilious-looking wight, who sought 
none but the most worm-eaten volumes printed in black- 
letter. He was evidently constructing some work of pro- 
found erudition, that would be purchased by every man 

25 who wished to be thought learned, placed upon a conspicu- 
ous shelf of his library, or laid open upon his table, — but 
never read. I observed him now and then draw a large 
fragment of biscuit out of his pocket, and gnaw; whether 
it was his dinner, or whether he was endeavoring to keep 

30 off that exhaustion of the stomach produced by much 
pondering over dry works, I leave to harder students than 
myself to determine. 

There was one dapper little gentleman in bright- 
colored clothes, with a chirping, gossiping expression of 



The Art of Book-Making 6^ 

countenance, who had all the appearance of an author 
on good terms with his bookseller. After considering him 
attentivel}', I recognized in him a diligent getter-up of 
miscellaneous works, which bustled off well with the 
trade. I was curious to see how he manufactured his 5 
wares. He made more stir and show of business than 
any of the others; dipping into various books, fluttering 
over the leaves of manuscripts, taking a morsel out of one, 
a morsel out of another, " line upon line, precept upon 
precept, here a little and there a little." The contents of 10 
his book seemed to be as heterogeneous as those of the 
witches' caldron in Macbeth. It was here a finger and 
there a thumb, "toe of frog" and "blind-worm's sting," 
with his own gossip poured in like " baboon's blood," to 
make the medley " slab and good." 15 

After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition 
be implanted in authors for wise purposes; may it not 
be the way in which Providence has taken care that the 
seeds of knowledge and wisdom shall be preserved from 
age to age, in spite of the inevitable decay of the works 20 
in which they were first produced? We see that nature 
has wisely, though whimsically, provided for the convey- 
ance of seeds from clime to clime in the maws of certain 
birds ; so that animals which in themselves are little 
better than carrion, and apparently the lawless plunderers 25 
of the orchard and the cornfield, are, in fact, nature's car- 
riers to disperse and perpetucfte her blessings. In like 
manner, the beauties and fine thoughts of ancient and 
obsolete authors are caught up by these flights of predatory 
writers, and cast forth again to flourish and bear fruit in a 30 
remote and distant tract of time. Many of their works, 
also, undergo a kind of metempsychosis, and spring up 
under new forms. What was formerly a ponderous his- 
tory revives in the shape of a romance, an old legend 



66 The Sketch Book 

changes into a modern play, and a sober philosophical 
treatise furnishes the body for a whole series of bouncing 
and sparkling essays. Thus it is in the clearing of our 
American woodlands; where we burn down a forest of 
5 stately pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks start up in their 
place; and we never see the prostrate trunk of a tree 
mouldering into soil, but it gives birth to a whole tribe 
of fungi. 

Let us not, then, lament over the decay and oblivion 

10 into which ancient writers descend ; they do but submit 
to the great law of nature which declares that all sublu- 
nary shapes of matter shall be limited in their duration, 
but which decrees also that their elements shall never 
perish. Generation after generation, both in animal and 

15 vegetable life, passes away, but the vital principle is 
transmitted to posterity, and the species continue to flour- 
ish. Thus also do authors beget authors, and having 
produced a numerous progeny, in a good old age they sleep 
with their fathers, that is to say, with the authors who 

20 preceded them — and from whom they had stolen. 

Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies, I 
had leaned my head against a pile of reverend folios. 
Whether it was owing to the soporific emanations from 
these works, or to the profound quiet of the room, or to 

25 the lassitude arising from much wandering, or to an 
unlucky habit of napping at improper times and places 
with which I am grievoUsly aflilicted, — so it was that I 
fell into a doze. Still, however, my imagination con- 
tinued busy, and indeed the same scene remained before 

30 my mind's eye, only a little changed in some of the details. 
I dreamt that the chamber was still decorated with the 
portraits of ancient authors, but that the number was 
increased. The long tables had disappeared, and in place 
of the sage magi I beheld a ragged, threadbare throng, 



The Art of Book-Making 67 

such as maj' be seen plying about the great repository of 
cast-off clothes, Monmouth Street. Whenever they seized 
upon a book, by one of those incongruities common to 
dreams, methought it turned into a garment of foreign 
or antique fashion, with which they proceeded to equip 5 
themselves. I noticed, however, that no one pretended to 
clothe himself from any particular suit, but took a sleeve 
from one, a cape from another, a skirt from a third, thus 
decking himself out piecemeal, while some of his original 
rags would peep out from among his borrowed finery. 10 

There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I ob- 
served ogling several mouldy polemical writers through 
an eye-glass. He soon contrived to slip on the volumi- 
nous mantle of one of the old fathers, and, having pur- 
loined the gray beard of another, endeavored to look 15 
exceedingly wise; but the smirking commonplace of his 
countenance set at naught all the trappings of wisdom. 
One sickly looking gentleman w^as busied embroidering 
a very flimsy garment with gold thread drawn out of sev- 
eral old court-dresses of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. 20 
Another had trimmed himself magnificently from an illu- 
minated manuscript, had stuck a nosegay in his bosom, 
culled from The Paradise of Daintie Devices, and having 
put Sir Philip Sidney's hat on one side of his -head, 
strutted off with an exquisite air of vulgar elegance. A 25 
third, who was but of puny dimensions, had bolstered 
himself out bravely with the spoils from several obscure 
tracts of philosophy, so that he had a very imposing front ; 
but he was lamentably tattered in rear, and I perceived 
that he had patched his small-clothes with scraps of parch- 30 
ment from a Latin author. 

There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, 
who only helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled 
among their own ornaments without eclipsing them. 



68 The Sketch Book 

Some, too, seemed to contemplate the costumes of the old 
writers merely to imbibe their principles of taste, and to 
catch their air and spirit ; but I grieve to say that too many 
were apt to array themselves from top to toe in the patch- 
5 work manner I have mentioned. I shall not omit to 
speak of one genius, in drab breeches and gaiters and an 
Arcadian hat, who had a violent propensity to the pastoral, 
but whose rural wanderings had been confined to the 
classic haunts of Primrose Hill and the solitudes of the 

10 Regent's Park. He had decked himself in wreaths and 
ribbons from all the old pastoral poets, and, hanging his 
head on one side, went about with a fantastical lacka- 
daisical air, " babbling about green fields." But the per- 
sonage that most struck my attention was a pragmatical 

15 old gentleman in clerical robes, with a remarkably large 
and square but bald head. He entered the room wheez- 
ing and puffing, elbowed his way through the throng with 
a look of sturdy self-confidence, and having laid hands 
upon a thick Greek quarto, clapped it upon his head, 

20 and swept majestically away in a formidable frizzled wig. 
In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry sud- 
denly resounded from every side, of ''Thieves! thieves!" 
I looked, and lo! the portraits about the wall became 
animated! The old authors thrust out, first a head, then 

25 a shoulder, from the canvas, looked down curiously for an 
instant upon the motley throng, and then descended, with 
fury in their eyes to claim their rifled property. The scene 
of scampering and hubbub that ensued baffles all descrip- 
tion. The unhappy culprits endeavored in vain to escape 

30 with their plunder. On one side might be seen half a 
dozen old monks stripping a modern professor; on an- 
other there was sad devastation carried into the ranks of 
modern dramatic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, side 
by side, raged round the field like Castor and Pollux, and 



The Art of Book-Making 69 

sturdy Ben Joiison enacted more wonders than when a 
volunteer with the army in Handers. As to the dapper 
little compiler of farragos, mentioned some time since, he 
had arrayed himself in as many patches and colors as 
Harlequin, and there was as fierce a contention of claim- 5 
ants about him as about the dead body of Patroclus. I 
was grieved to see many men to whom I had been accus- 
tomed to look up with awe and reverence fain to steal 
off with scarce a rag to cover their nakedness. Just then 
my eye was caught by the pragmatical old gentleman in 10 
the Greek grizzled wig, who was scrambling away in sore 
affright with half a score of authors in full cry after him ! 
They were close upon his haunches: in a twinkling off 
A\ent his wig; at every turn some strip of raiment was 
peeled away; until in a few moments, from his domineer- 15 
ing pomp, he shrunk into a little, pursy, " chopped bald 
shot," and made his exit with only a few tags and rags 
fluttering at his back. 

There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe 
of this learned Theban that I burst into an immoderate 20 
fit of laughter, which broke the whole illusion. The 
tum.ult and the scuffle were at an end. The chamber re- 
sumed its usual appearance. The old authors shrunk back 
into their picture-frames, and hung in shadowy solemnity 
along the walls. In short, I found myself wide awake in 25 
my corner, with the whole assemblage of book-worms 
gazing at me with astonishment. Nothing of the dream 
had been real but my burst of laughter, a sound never 
before heard in that grave sanctuary, and so abhorrent 
to the ears of wisdom as to electrify the fraternity. 30 

The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded 
whether I had a card of admission. At first I did not 
comprehend him, but I soon found that the library was 
a kind of literary "preserve" subject to game-laws, and 



70 The Sketch Book 

that no one must presume to hunt there without special 
license and permission. In a word I stood convicted of 
being an arrant poacher, and was glad to make a precipi- 
tate retreat, lest I should have a whole pack of authors let 
loose upon me. 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH 

A gentleman ! 
What, o' the vvoolpack? or the sugar-chest? 
Or lists of velvet? which is't, pound or yard, 
You vend your gentry by? 

Beggar's Bush. 

There are few places more favorable to the study of 
character than an English country church. I was once 
passing a few weeks at the seat of a friend who resided 
in the vicinity of one, the appearance of which particu- 
larly struck my fancy. It was one of those rich morsels 5 
of quaint antiquity which give such a peculiar charm to 
English landscape. It stood in the midst of a country 
filled with ancient families, and contained within its cold 
and silent aisles the congregated dust of many noble gen- 
erations. The interior walls were incrusted with monu- 10 
ments of every age and style. The light streamed 
through windows dimmed with armorial bearings, richly 
emblazoned in stained glass. In various parts of the 
church were tombs of knights and high-born dames, of 
gorgeous workmanship, with their effigies in colored mar- 15 
ble. On every side the eye was struck with some instance 
of aspiring mortality ; some haughty memorial which 
human pride had erected over its kindred dust, in this 
temple of the most humble of all religions. 

The congregation was composed of the neighboring 20 
people of rank, who sat in pews sumptuously lined and 
cushioned, furnished with richly gilded prayer-books, and 

71 



72 The Sketch Book 

decorated with their arms upon the pew doors; of the vil- 
lagers and peasantry, who filled the back seats and a 
small gallery beside the organ; and of the poor of the 
parish, who were ranged on benches in the aisles. 
5 The service was performed by a snuffling well-fed vicar, 
who had a snug dwelling near the church. He was a 
privileged guest at all the tables of the neighborhood, and 
had been the keenest fox-hunter in the country until age 
and good living had disabled him from doing anything 

10 more than ride to see the hounds throw off, and make one 
at the hunting dinner. 

Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found it impos- 
sible to get into the train of thought suitable to the time 
and place: so, having like many other feeble Christians 

15 compromised with my conscience by laying the sin of my 
own delinquency at another person's threshold, I occupied 
myself by making observations on my neighbors. 

I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious to 
notice the manners of its fashionable classes. I found, as 

20 usual, that there was the least pretension where there was 
the most acknowledged title to respect. I was particu- 
larly struck, for instance, with the family of a nobleman 
of high rank, consisting of several sons and daughters. 
Nothing could be more simple and unassuming than their 

25 appearance. They generally came to church in the plain- 
est equipage, and often on foot. The young ladies would 
stop and converse in the kindest manner with the peasantry, 
caress the children, and listen to the stories of the humble 
cottagers. Their countenances were open and beautifully 

30 fair, with an expression of high refinement, but at the 
same time a frank cheerfulness and an engaging affability. 
Their brothers were tall, and elegantly formed. They 
were dressed fashionably, but simply; with strict neatness 
and propriety, but without any mannerism or foppishness. 



The Country Church 73 

Their whole demeanor was easy and natural, with that 
lofty grace and noble frankness which bespeak freeborn 
souls that have never been checked in their growth by feel- 
ings of inferiority. There is a healthful hardiness about 
real dignity that never dreads contact and communion 5 
with others, however humble. It is only spurious pride 
that is morbid and sensitive, and shrinks from every touch. 
I was pleased to see the manner in which they would 
converse with the peasantry about those rural concerns 
and field-sports in which the gentlemen of this country 10 
so much delight. In these conversations there was neither 
haughtiness on the one part nor servility on the other; and 
you were only reminded of the difference of rank by the 
habitual respect of the peasant. 

In contrast to these was the family of a wealthy citi- 15 
zen, who had amassed a vast fortune; and, having pur- 
chased the estate and mansion of a ruined nobleman in 
the neighborhood, was endeavoring to assume all the style 
and dignity of an hereditary lord of the soil. The family 
always came to church en prince. They were rolled ma- 20 
jestically along in a carriage emblazoned with arms. The 
crest glittered in silver radiance from every part of the 
harness where a crest could possibly be placed. A fat 
coachman in a three-cornered hat richly laced, and a flaxen 
w^ig curling close round his rosy face, was seated on the 25 
box, with a sleek Danish dog beside him. Two footmen 
in gorgeous liveries, with huge bouquets and gold-headed 
canes, lolled behind. The carriage rose and sunk on its 
long springs with peculiar stateliness of motion. The 
very horses champed their bits, arched their necks, and 30 
glanced their eyes more proudly than common horses; 
either because they had caught a little of the family feel- 
ing, or were reined up more tightly than ordinary. 

I could not but admire the style with which this splen- 



74 The Sketch Book 

did pageant was brought up to the gate of the church- 
yard. There was a vast effect produced at the turning 
of an angle of the wall, — a great smacking of the whip, 
straining and scrambling of horses, glistening of harness, 
5 and flashing of wheels through gravel. This was the mo- 
ment of triumph and vainglory to the coachman. The 
horses were urged and checked until they were fretted into 
a foam. They threw out their feet in a prancing trot, 
dashing about pebbles at every step. The crowd of vil- 

10 lagers sauntering quietly to church, opened precipitately 
to the right and left, gaping in vacant admiration. On 
reaching the gate, the horses were pulled up with a sudden- 
ness that produced an immediate stop, and almost threw 
them on their haunches. 

15 There was an extraordinary hurry of the footman to 
alight, pull dow^n the steps, and prepare everything for 
the descent on earth of this august family. The old 
citizen first emerged his round red face from out the door, 
looking about him with the pompous air of a man accus- 

20 tomed to rule on 'Change, and shake the Stock Market 
with a nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, comfortable dame, 
followed him. There seemed, I must confess, but little 
pride in her composition. She was the picture of broad, 
honest, vulgar enjoyment. The world went well with her, 

25 and she liked the world. She had fine clothes, a fine 
house, a fine carriage, fine children, everything was fine 
about her; it was nothing but driving about and visiting 
and feasting. Life was to her a perpetual revel ; it was one 
long Lord Mayor's Day. 

30 Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. They 
certainly were handsome; but had a supercilious air that 
chilled admiration, and disposed the spectator to be criti- 
cal. They were ultra-fashionable in dress; and, though 
no one could deny the richness of their decorations, yet 



The Country Church 75 

their appropriateness might be questioned amidst the sim- 
pHcity of a country church. They descended loftily from 
the carriage, and moved up the line of peasantry with a 
step that seemed dainty of the soil it trod on. They cast 
an excursive glance around, that passed coldly over the 5 
burly faces of the peasantry, until they met the eyes of the 
nobleman's family, when their countenances immediately 
brightened into smiles, and they made the most profound 
and elegant courtesies, which were returned in a manner 
that showed they were but slight acquaintances. 10 

I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen, 
who came to church in a dashing curricle, with outriders. 
They were arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all 
the pedantry of dress which marks the man of question- 
able pretensions to style. They kept entirely by them- 15 
selves, eyeing every one askance that came near them 
as if measuring his claims to respectability ; yet they 
WTre without conversation, except the exchange of an occa- 
sional cant phrase. They even moved artificially; for 
their bodies in compliance with the caprice of the day 20 
had been disciplined into the absence of all ease and 
freedom. Art had done everything to accomplish them 
as men of fashion, but nature had denied them the nameless 
grace. They were vulgarly shaped, like men formed for 
the common purposes of life, and had that air of super- 25 
cilious assumption which is never seen in the true gentle- 
man. 

I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of 
these two families, because I considered them specimens 
of what is often to be met with in this country — the 30 
unpretending great and the arrogant little. I have no 
respect for titled rank, unless it be accompanied with true 
nobility of soul, but I have remarked in all countries 
where artificial distinctions exist, that the very highest 



76 The Sketch Book 

classes are always the most courteous and unassuming. 
Those who are well assured of their own standing are 
least apt to trespass on that of others: whereas nothing 
is so offensive as the aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks 
5 to elevate itself by humiliating its neighbor. 

As I have brought these families into contrast, I must 
notice their behavior in church. That of the nobleman's 
family was quiet, serious, and attentive. Not that they 
appeared to have any fervor of devotion, but rather a 

10 respect for sacred things and sacred places, inseparable 
from good breeding. The others, on the contrary, were 
in perpetual flutter and whisper; they betrayed a con- 
tinual consciousness of finery and a sorry ambition of 
being the wonders of a rural congregation. 

15 The old gentleman was the only one really attentive 
to the service. He took the whole burden of family 
devotion upon himself, standing bolt upright, and utter- 
ing the responses with a loud voice that might be heard 
all over the church. It was evident that he was one of 

20 those thorough church and king men who connect the 
idea of devotion and loyalty; who consider the Deity, 
somehow or other, of the government party, and religion 
*' a very excellent sort of thing that ought to be coun- 
tenanced and kept up." 

25 When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed 
more by way of example to the lower orders, to show 
them that though so great and wealthy he was not above 
being religious; as I have seen a turtle-fed alderman 
swallow publicly a basin of charity soup, smacking his 

30 lips at every mouthful, and pronouncing it " excellent food 
for the poor." 

When the service was at an end, I was curious to witness 
the several exits of my groups. The young noblemen and 
their sisters, as the day was fine, preferred strolling home 



The Country Church 77 

across the fields, chatting with tlie country people as they 
went. The others departed as they came, in grand parade. 
Again were the equipages wheeled up to the gate. There 
was again the smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, 
and the glittering of harness. The horses started off al- 
most at a bound ; the villagers again hurried to right and 
left; the wheels threw up a cloud of dust; and the aspiring 
family was rapt out of sight in a whirlwind. 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON 

Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires 
Honour and reverence evermore have rain'd. 

Marlowe's Tamburlaine. 

Those who are In the habit of remarking such mat- 
ters must have noticed the passive quiet of an English 
landscape on Sunday. The clacking of the mill, the regu- 
larly recurring stroke of the flail, the din of the black- 
5 smith's hammer, the whistling of the ploughman, the 
rattling of the cart, and all other sounds of rural labor 
are suspended. The very farm dogs bark less frequently, 
being less disturbed by passing travelers. At such times 
I have almost fancied the winds sunk Into quiet, and that 
10 the sunny landscape, with Its fresh green tints melting 
into blue haze, enjoyed the hallowed calm. 

Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky. 

Well was It ordained that the day of devotion should 
15 be a day of rest. The holy repose which reigns over 
the face of nature has Its moral Influence; every rest- 
less passion Is charmed down, and we feel the natural 
religion of the soul gently springing up within us. For 
my part, there are feelings that visit me In a country 
20 church amid the beautiful serenity of nature which I 
experience nowhere else; and If not a more religious, 
I think I am a better man on Sunday than on any other 
day of the seven. 

78 



The Widow and Her Son 79 

During my recent residence in the countr3% I used fre- 
quently to attend at the old village church. Its shadowy 
aisles, its mouldering monuments, its dark oaken paneling 
all reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed 
to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation; but being in 5 
a wealthy aristocratic neighborhood, the glitter of fashion 
penetrated even into the sanctuary; and I felt myself con- 
tinually thrown back upon the w^orld by the frigidity and 
pomp of the poor worms around me. The only being in 
the whole congregation who appeared thoroughly to feel 10 
the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian was 
a poor decrepit old woman, bending under the weight of 
A'ears and infirmities. She bore the traces of something 
better than abject poverty. The lingerings of decent pride 
were visible in her appearance. Her dress, though hum- 15 
ble in the extreme, was scrupulously clean. Some trivial 
respect, too, had been awarded her, for she did not take 
her seat among the village poor, but sat alone on the 
steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived all love, 
all friendship, all society; and to have nothing left her 20 
but the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising 
and bending her aged form in prayer; habitually conning 
her prayer-book, which her palsied hand and failing eyes 
would not permit her to read, but which she evidently 
knew by heart; I felt persuaded that the faltering voice 25 
of that poor woman arose to heaven far before the re- 
sponses of the clerk, the swtU of the organ, or the chant- 
ing of the choir. 

I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this 
was so delightfully situated that it frequently attracted 30 
me. It stood on a knoll round which a small stream 
made a beautiful bend, and then wound its way through 
a long reach of soft meadow scenery. The church was sur- 
rounded by yew trees w^hich seemed almost coeval with 



8o The Sketch Book 

itself. Its tall Gothic spire shot up lightly from among 
them, with rooks and crows generally wheeling about it. 
I was seated there one still sunny morning, watching two 
laborers who were digging a grave. They had chosen 
5 one of the most remote and neglected corners of the 
churchyard, where, from the number of nameless graves 
around, it would appear that the indigent and friendless 
were huddled into the earth. I was told that the new- 
made grave was for the only son of a poor widow. While 

10 I was meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank, 
which extend thus down into the very dust, the toll of the 
bell announced the approach of the funeral. They were 
the obsequies of poverty, with which pride had nothing to 
do. A cofHn of the plainest materials, without pall or 

15 other covering, was borne by some of the villagers. The 
sexton walked before with an air of cold indifiference. 
There were no mock mourners in the trappings of af- 
fected woe ; but there was one real mourner who feebly 
tottered after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the 

20 deceased — the poor old woman whom I had seen seated 
on the steps of the altar. She was supported by a humble 
friend who was endeavoring to comfort her. A few of 
the neighboring poor had joined the train, and some chil- 
dren of the village were running hand in hand, now shout- 

25 ing with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze with 
childish curiosity on the grief of the mourner. 

As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson 
issued from the church porch arrayed in the surplice, 
with prayer-book in hand, and attended by the clerk. 

30 The service, however, was a mere act of charity. The 
deceased had been destitute, and the survivor w^as penni- 
less. It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but 
coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed priest moved but 
a few steps from the church door ; his voice could scarcely 



The Widow and Her Son 8i 

be heard at the grave; and never did I hear the funeral 
service, that subh'me and touching ceremony, turned into 
such a frigid mummery of words. 

I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the 
ground. On it were inscribed the name and age of the 5 
deceased — " George Somers, aged 26 years." The poor 
mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. 
Her withered hands were clasped as if in prayer, but I 
could perceive by a feeble rocking of the body and a con- 
vulsive motion of her lips that she was gazing on the last 10 
relics of her son with the yearnings of a mother's heart. 

Preparations w^re made to deposit the coffin in the 
earth. There was that bustling stir which breaks so 
harshly on the feelings of grief and affection, directions 
given in the cold tones of business, the striking of spades 15 
into sand and gravel, which, at the grave of those we 
love, is of all sounds the most withering. The bustle 
around seemed to waken the mother from a wretched 
reverie. She raised her glazed eyes and looked about with 
a faint wildness. As the men approached with cords to 20 
lowTr the coffin into the grave, she wrung her hands and 
broke into an agony of grief. The poor woman who 
attended her took her by the arm, endeavoring to raise her 
from the earth, and to whisper something like consolation 
— " Nay, now — nay, now — don't take it so sorely to 25 
heart." She could only shake her head and WTing her 
hands, as one not to be comforted. 

As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking 
of the cords seemed to agonize her; but when on some 
accidental obstruction there was a justling of the coffin, 30 
all the tenderness of the mother burst forth — as if any 
harm could come to him who was far bej^ond the reach of 
worldly suffering. 

I could see no more — my heart swelled into my throat — 



82 The Sketch Book 

my eyes filled with tears — I felt as If I were acting a 
barbarous part In standing by and gazing Idly on this 
scene of maternal anguish. I wandered to another part 
of the churchyard, where I remained until the funeral 
5 train had dispersed. 

When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting 
the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was 
dear to her on earth, and returning to silence and desti- 
tution, my heart ached for her. What, thought I, are the 

10 distresses of the rich ! they have friends to soothe — pleas- 
ures to beguile — a world to divert and dissipate their 
griefs. What are the sorrows of the young! Their grow- 
ing minds soon close above the wound — their elastic 
spirits soon rise beneath the pressure — their green and 

15 ductile affections soon twine round new objects. But the 
sorrows of the poor, who have no outward appliances to 
soothe — the sorrows of the aged, with whom life at best 
Is but a wintry day, and who can look for no after-growth 
of joy — the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, 

20 mourning over an only son, the last solace of her years: 
these are Indeed sorrows which make us feel the Impotency 
of consolation. 

It was some time before I left the churchyard. On 
my way homeward I met with the woman who had acted 

25 as comforter; she was just returning from accompanying 
the mother to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her 
some particulars connected with the affecting scene I had 
witnessed. 

The parents of the deceased had resided In the village 

30 from childhood. They had Inhabited one of the neatest 
cottages, and by various rural occupations and the assist- 
ance of a small garden had supported themselves credit- 
ably and comfortably, and led a happy and a blameless 
life. They had one son, who had grown up to be the 



The Widow and Her Son 83 

staff and pride of their age. — "Oh, sir!" said the good 
woman, " he was such a comely lad, so sweet-tempered, 
so kind to every one around him, so dutiful to his parents! 
It did one's heart good to see him of a Sunday, dressed 
out in his best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting 5 
his old mother to church — for she was always fonder of 
leaning on George's arm than on her good man's; and poor 
soul she might well be proud of him, for a finer lad there 
was not in the country round." 

Unfortunately the son was tempted during a year of 10 
scarcity and agricultural hardship to enter into the service 
of one of the small craft that plied on a neighboring 
river. He had not been long in this employ when he was 
entrapped by a press-gang and carried off to sea. His 
parents received tidings of his seizure, but beyond that 15 
they could learn nothing. It was the loss of their main • 
prop. The father, who was already infirm, grew heart- 
less and melancholy, and sunk into his grave. The widow, 
left lonely in her age and feebleness, could no longer sup 
port herself, and came upon the parish. Still there was a 20 
kind feeling toward her throughout the village, and a cer- 
tain respect as being one of the oldest inhabitants. As no 
one applied for the cottage in which she had passed so 
many happy days, she was permitted to remain in it, where 
she lived solitary and almost helpless. The few wants of 25 
nature were chiefly supplied from the scanty productions 
of her little garden, which the neighbors would now and 
then cultivate for her. It was but a few days before the 
time at which these circumstances were told me, that she 
was gathering some vegetables for her repast, when she 30 
heard the cottage door which faced the garden suddenly 
opened. A stranger came out, and seemed to be looking 
eagerly and wildly around. He was dressed in seaman's 
clothes, was emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore the air 



84 The Sketch Book 

of one broken by sickness and hardships. He saw her and 
hastened towards her, but his steps were faint and faher- 
ing; he sank on his knees before her and sobbed like a 
child. The poor woman gazed upon him with a vacant and 
5 wandering eye — "Oh, my dear, dear mother! don't you 
know your son? your poor boy, George?" It was indeed 
the wreck of her once noble lad, who, shattered by wounds, 
by sickness and foreign imprisonment, had, at length, 
dragged his wasted limbs homeward, to repose among the 

10 scenes of his childhood. 

I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such 
a meeting, where joy and sorrow were so completely 
blended : still he was alive ! he was come home ! he might 
yet live to comfort and cherish her old age! Nature, 

15 however, was exhausted in him; and if anything had been 

• wanting to finish the work of fate, the desolation of his 
native cottage would have been sufficient. He stretched 
himself on the pallet on which his widowed mother had 
passed many a sleepless night, and he never rose from it 

20 again. 

The villagers, when they heard that George Somers 
had returned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort 
and assistance that their humble means afforded. He was 
too weak, however, to talk — he could only look his thanks. 

25 His mother was his constant attendant, and he seemed un- 
willing to be helped by any other hand. 

There is something in sickness that breaks down the 
pride of manhood; that softens the heart, and brings it 
back to the feelings of infancy. Who that has languished 

30 even in advanced life in sickness and despondency, who 
that has pined on a weary bed in the neglect and loneliness 
of a foreign land, but has thought on the mother " that 
looked on his childhood," that smoothed his pillow and 
administered to his helplessness? Oh, there is an endur- 



The Widow and Her Son 85 

ing tenderness in the love of a mother to her son that 
transcends all other affections of the heart ! It is neither 
to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor 
weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. 
She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience, she 5 
will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment, she will 
glory in his fame and exult in his prosperity: and if mis- 
fortune overtake him he will be the dearer to her from 
misfortune ; and if disgrace settle upon his name, she will 
still love and cherish him in spite of his disgrace; and if 10 
all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world 
to him. 

Poor George Somers had known what it was to be in 
sickness, and none to soothe — lonely and in prison, and 
none to visit him. He could not endure his mother from 15 
his sight ; if she moved away, his eye would follow her. 
She would sit for hours by his bed, watching him as he 
slept. Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, 
and look anxiously up until he saw her bending over 
him; when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom, 20 
and fall asleep with the tranquillity of a child. In this 
way he died. 

My first impulse on hearing this humble tale of afflic- 
tion was to visit the cottage of the mourner, and admin- 
ister pecuniary assistance, and if possible comfort. I found 25 
however on inquiry, that the good feelings of the vil- 
lagers had prompted them to do everything that the case 
admitted ; and as the poor know best how to console each 
other's sorrows, I did not venture to intrude. 

The next Sunday I was at the village church ; when to 30 
my surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down 
the aisle to her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. 

She had made an effort to put on something like mourn- 
ing for her son ; and nothing could be more touching than 



86 The Sketch Book 

this struggle between pious affection and utter poverty: a 
black ribbon or so, a faded black handkerchief, and one or 
two more such humble attempts to express by outward 
signs that grief which passes show. When I looked round 
5 upon the storied monuments, the stately hatchments, the 
cold marble pomp with which grandeur mourned mag- 
nificently over departed pride, and turned to this poor 
widow, bowed down by age and sorrow at the altar of her 
God, and offering up the pra)^ers and praises of a pious 

10 though a broken heart, I felt that this living monument of 
real grief was worth them all. 

I related her story to some of the wealthy members of 
the congregation, and they were moved by it. They ex- 
erted themselves to render her situation more comfortable, 

15 and to lighten her afflictions. It was, however, but 
smoothing a few steps to the grave. In the course of a 
Sunday or two after she was missed from her usual seat 
at church, and before I left the neighborhood I heard with 
a feeling of satisfaction that she had quietly breathed her 

20 last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, in that world 
where sorrow is never known and friends are never parted. 



A SUNDAY IN LONDON 

In a preceding paper I have spoken of an English 
Sunday in the country, and its tranquilizing effect upon 
the landscape; but where is its sacred influence more 
strikingly apparent than in the very heart of that great 
Babel, London? On this sacred day the gigantic mon- 5 
ster is charmed into repose. The intolerable din and 
struggle of the week are at an end. The shops are shut. 
The fires of forges and manufactories are extinguished ; 
and the sun, no longer obscured by murky clouds of smoke, 
pours down a sober, yellow radiance into the quiet streets. 10 
The few pedestrians we meet, instead of hurrying for- 
w^ard with anxious countenances, move leisurely along; 
their brows are smoothed from the wrinkles of business 
and care; they have put on their Sunday looks and Sun- 
day manners with their Sunday clothes, and are cleansed 15 
in mind as well as in person. 

And now the melodious clangor of bells from church 
towers summons their several flocks to the fold. Forth 
from his mansion issues the family of the decent trades- 
man, the small children in the advance; then the citizen 20 
and his comely spouse followed by the grown-up daughters, 
with small morocco-bound prayer-books laid in the folds 
of their pocket-handkerchiefs. The housemaid looks after 
them from the window admiring the finery of the family, 
and receiving perhaps a nod and smile from her young 25 
mistresses at whose toilet she has assisted. 

Now rumbles along the carriage of some magnate of 
87 



88 The Sketch Book 

the city, peradventure an alderman or a sheriff; and 
now the patter of many feet announces a procession of 
charity scholars, in uniforms of antique cut, and each 
with a prayer-book under his arm. 
5 The ringing of bells is at an end, the rumbling of 
the carriage has ceased, the pattering of feet is heard no 
more; the flocks are folded in ancient churches, cramped 
up in by-lanes and corners of the crowded city, where 
the vigilant beadle keeps watch, like the shepherd's dog, 

10 round the threshold of the sanctuary. For a time every- 
thing is hushed; but soon is heard the deep, pervading 
sound of the organ, rolling and vibrating through the 
empty lanes and courts; and the sweet chanting of the 
choir making them resound with melody and praise. 

15 Never have I been more sensible of the sanctifying effect 
of church music than when I have heard it thus poured 
forth like a river of joy through the inmost recesses of this 
great metropolis, elevating it, as it were, from all the 
sordid pollutions of the week, and bearing the poor world- 

20 worn soul on a tide of triumphant harmony to heaven. 

The morning service is at an end. The. streets are 
again alive with the congregations returning to their 
homes, but soon again relapse into silence. Now comes 
on the Sunday dinner, w^hich to the city tradesman is 

25 a meal of some importance. There is more leisure for 
social enjoyment at the board. Members of the family 
can now gather together who are separated by the labo- 
rious occupations of the week. A schoolboy may be per- 
mitted on that day to come to the paternal home; an old 

30 friend of the family takes his accustomed Sunday seat 
at the board, tells over his well-known stories, and rejoices 
young and old with his well-known jokes. 

On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth its legions 
to breathe the fresh air and enjoy the sunshine of the 



A Sunday in London 89 

parks and rural environs. Satirists may say what they 
please about the rural enjoyments of a London citizen 
on Sunday, but to me there is something delightful in 
beholding the poor prisoner of the crowded and dusty 
city enabled thus to come forth once a week and throw 5 
himself upon the green bosom of nature. He is like a 
child restored to the mother's breast; and they who first 
spread out these noble parks and magnificent pleasure- 
grounds which surround this huge metropolis have done 
at least as much for its health and morality as if they had 10 
expended the amount of cost in hospitals, prisons, and 
penitentiaries. 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP 

A SHAKESPEARIAN RESEARCH 

" A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of good 
fellows. I have heard my great-grandfather tell, how his great- 
great-grandfather should say, that it was an old proverb when 
his great-grandfather was a child, that ' it was a good wind that 
blew a man to the wine.' " 

Mother Bombie. 

It is a pious custom in some Catholic countries to 
honor the memory of saints by votive lights burnt before 
their pictures. The popularity of a saint, therefore, may 
be known by the number of these offerings. One per- 
5 haps is left to moulder in the darkness of his little chapel ; 
another may have a solitary lamp to throw its blinking 
rays athwart his effigy; while the whole blaze of adora- 
tion is lavished at the shrine of some beatified father of 
renown. The wealthy devotee brings his huge luminary 

10 of wax ; the eager zealot his seven-branched candlestick, 
and even the mendicant pilgrim is by no means satisfied 
that sufficient light is thrown upon the deceased unless 
he hangs up his little lamp of smoking oil. The conse- 
quence is, that in the eagerness to enlighten they are 

15 often apt to obscure; and I have occasionally seen an 
unlucky saint almost smoked out of countenance by the 
officiousness of his followers. 

In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shake- 
speare. Every writer considers it his bounden duty to 

go 



The Boar's Head Tavern 91 

light up some portion of his character or works, and to 
rescue some merit from oblivion. The commentator, 
opulent in words, produces vast tomes of dissertations; 
the common herd of editors send up mists of obscurity 
from their notes at the bottom of each page; and every 5 
casual scribbler brings his farthing rushlight of eulogy or 
research to swell the cloud of incense and of smoke. 

As I honor all established usages of my brethren of 
the quill, I thought it but proper to contribute my mite 
of homage to the memory of the illustrious bard. I was 10 
for some time, however, sorely puzzled in what way I 
should discharge this duty. I found myself anticipated 
in every attempt at a new reading; every doubtful line 
had been explained a dozen different ways, and per- 
plexed beyond the reach of elucidation ; and as to fine pas- 15 
sages, they had all been amply praised by previous ad- 
mirers; nay, so completely had the bard of late been 
overlarded with panegyric by a great German critic, that 
it was difficult now to find even a fault that had not been 
argued into a beauty. 20 

In this perplexity I was one morning turning over his 
pages, when I casually opened upon the comic scenes of 
Henry IV., and was in a moment completely lost in the 
madcap revelry of the Boar's Head Tavern. So vividly 
and naturally are these scenes of humor depicted, and 25 
with such force and consistency are the characters sus- 
tained, that they become mingled up in the mind with 
the facts and personages of real life. To few readers 
does it occur that these are all ideal creations of a poet's 
brain, and that in sober truth no such knot of merry 30 
roysters ever enlivened the dull neighborhood of East- 
cheap. 

For my part I love to give myself up to the illusions of 
poetry. A hero of fiction that never existed is just as 



92 The Sketch Book 

valuable to me as a hero of history that existed a thou- 
sand years since ; and if I may be excused such an in- 
sensibility to the common ties of human nature, I would 
not give up fat Jack for half the great men of ancient 
5 chronicle. What have the heroes of yore done for me, 
or men like me? They have conquered countries of 
which I do not enjoy an acre; or they have gained laurels 
of which I do not inherit a leaf; or they have furnished 
examples of hair-brained prowess which I have neither the 

10 opportunity nor the inclination to follow. But old Jack 
Falstaff! — kind Jack Falstaff! — sweet Jack Falstaff! — 
has enlarged the boundaries of human enjoyment; he has 
added vast regions of wit and good humor in which the 
poorest man may revel ; and has bequeathed a never-failing 

15 inheritance of jolly laughter to make mankind merrier and 
better to the latest posterity. 

A thought suddenly struck me: "I will make a pil- 
grimage to Eastcheap," said I, closing the book, " and 
see if the old Boar's Head Tavern still exists. Who 

20 knows but I may light upon some legendary traces of 
Dame Quickly and her guests; at any rate there will be 
a kindred pleasure in treading the halls once vocal with 
their mirth to that the toper enjoys in smelling to the 
empty cask once filled with generous wine." 

25 The resolution was no sooner formed than put in exe- 
cution. I forbear to treat of the various adventures and 
wonders I encountered in my travels: of the haunted 
regions of Cock Lane; of the faded glories of Little 
Britain and the parts adjacent; what perils I ran in 

30 Cateaton Street and old Jewry ; of the renowned Guild- 
hall and its two stunted giants, the pride and wonder of 
the city and the terror of all unlucky urchins; and how 
I visited London Stone and struck my staff upon it, in 
imitation of that arch rebel, Jack Cade. 



The Boar's Head Tavern 93 

Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived in merry 
Eastcheap, that ancient region of wit and wassail where 
the very names of the streets relished of good cheer, as 
Pudding Lane bears testimony even at the present day. 
For Eastcheap, says old Stow, " was always famous for 5 
its convivial doings. The cookes cried hot ribbes of beef 
roasted, pies well baked, and other victuals: there was 
clattering of pewter pots, harpe, pipe, and sawtrie." Alas! 
how sadly is the scene changed since the roaring days of 
Falstaff and old Stow! The madcap royster has given 10 
place to the plodding tradesman ; the clattering of pots and 
the sound of " harpe and sawtrie " to the din of carts and 
the accursed dinging of the dustman's bell ; and no song is 
heard, save haply the strain of some siren from Billings- 
gate chanting the eulogy of deceased mackerel. 15 

I sought in vain for the ancient abode of Dame 
Quickly. The only relic of it is a boar's head carved in 
relief in stone, w^hich formerly served as the sign, but at 
present is built into the parting line of two houses which 
stand on the site of the renowned old tavern. 20 

For the history of this little abode of good fellowship, 
I was referred to a tallow-chandler's widow opposite, who 
had been born and brought up on the spot, and was looked 
up to as the indisputable chronicler of the neighborhood. 
I found her seated in a little back parlor, the window 25 
of which looked out upon a yard about eight feet square, 
laid out as a flower-garden ; while a glass door opposite 
afforded a distant peep of the street through a vista of 
soap and tallow candles: the two views which comprised 
in all probability her prospects in life, and the little world 30 
in which she had lived and moved and had her being for 
the better part of a century. 

To be versed in the history of Eastcheap great and 
little, from London Stone even unto the Monument, was 



94 The Sketch Book 

doubtless in her opinion to be acquainted with the his- 
tory of the universe. Yet with all this she possessed the 
simplicity of true wisdom, and that liberal communicative 
disposition which I have generally remarked in intelligent 
5 old ladies knowing in the concerns of their neighborhood. 
Her information, however, did not extend far back 
into antiquity. She could throw no light upon the his- 
tory of the Boar's Head, from the time that Dame Quickly 
espoused the valiant Pistol until the great fire of London, 

10 when it was unfortunately burnt down. It was soon 
rebuilt, and continued to flourish under the old name and 
sign, until a dying landlord, struck with remorse for 
double scores, bad measures, and other iniquities which 
are incident to the sinful race of publicans, endeavored 

15 to make his peace with heaven by bequeathing the tavern 
to St. Michael's Church, Crooked Lane, towards the sup- 
porting of a chaplain. For some time the vestry meet- 
ings were regularly held there; but it was observed that 
the old Boar never held up his head under church govern- 

20 ment. He gradually declined, and finally gave his last 
gasp about thirty years since. The tavern was then turned 
into shops; but she informed me that a picture of it was 
still preserved in St. Michael's Church, which stood just 
in the rear. To get a sight of this picture was now my 

25 determination ; so, having informed myself of the abode of 
the sexton, I took my leave of the venerable chronicler of 
Eastcheap, my visit having doubtless raised greatly her 
opinion of her legendary lore, and furnished an important 
incident in the history of her life. 

30 It cost me some difficulty and much curious inquiry to 
ferret out the humble hanger-on to the church. I had to 
explore Crooked Lane, and diverse little alleys and elbows 
and dark passages with which this old city is perforated, 
like an ancient cheese or a worm-eaten chest of drawers. 



The Boar's Head Tavern 95 

At length I traced him to a corner of a small court sur- 
rounded by lofty houses, where the inhabitants enjoy 
about as much of the face of heaven as a community of 
frogs at the bottom of a well. 

The sexton was a meek, acquiescing little man, of a 5 
bowing, lowly habit: yet he had a pleasant twinkling in 
his eye, and if encouraged would now and then hazard a 
small pleasantry, such as a man of his low estate might 
venture to make in the company of high churchwardens 
and other mighty men of the earth. I found him in com- 10 
pany with the deputy organist, seated apart, like Milton's 
angels, discoursing no doubt on high doctrinal points, and 
settling the affairs of the church over a friendly pot of 
ale, — for the lower classes of English seldom deliberate 
on any weighty matter without the assistance of a cool 15 
tankard to clear their understandings. I arrived at the 
moment when they had finished their ale and their argu- 
ment, and were about to repair to the church to put it in 
order; so having made known my wishes, I received their 
gracious permission to accompany them, 30 

The church of St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, standing 
a short distance from Billingsgate, is enriched with the 
tombs of many fishmongers of renown ; and as every 
profession has its galaxy of glory and its constellation of 
great men, I presume the monument of a mighty fish- 25 
monger of the olden time is regarded with as much 
reverence by succeeding generations of the craft, as poets 
feel on contemplating the tomb of Virgil, or soldiers the 
monument of a Marlborough or Turenne. 

I cannot but turn aside while thus speaking of illus- 30 
trious men, to observe that St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, 
contains also the ashes of that doughty champion, Wil- 
liam Walworth, knight, who so manfully clove down the 
sturdy wight, Wat Tyler, in Smithfield; a hero worthy 



g6 The Sketch Book 

of honorable blazon, as almost the only Lord Mayor on 
record famous for deeds of arms, — the sovereigns of 
Cockney being generally renowned as the most pacific of 
all potentates/ 
5 Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, immedi- 
ately under the back window of what was once the Boar's 
Head, stands the tombstone of Robert Preston, whilom 
drawer at the tavern. It is now nearly a century since 
this trusty drawer of good liquor closed his bustling 
10 career, and was thus quietly deposited within call of 
his customers. As I was clearing away the weeds from 

^ The following was the ancient inscription on the monument 
of this worthy; which, unhappily, was destroyed in the great 
conflagration. 

Hereunder lyth a man of Fame, 
William Walworth callyd by name; 
Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here, 
And twise Lord Maior, as in books appere; 
Who, with courage stout and manly myght, 
Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight. 
For which act done, and trew entent, 
The Kyng made him knyght incontinent; 
And gave him armes, as here you see, 
. To declare his fact and chivaldrie. 
He left this lyff the yere of our God 
Thirteen hundred fourscore and three odd. 

An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected by the 
venerable Stow. " Whereas," saith he, " it hath been far spread 
abroad by vulgar opinion, that the rebel smitten down so man- 
fully by Sir William Walworth, the then worthy Lord Maior, 
was named Jack Straw, and not Wat Tyler, I thought good to 
reconcile this rash-conceived doubt by such testimony as I find in 
ancient and good records. The principal leaders, or captains, of 
the commons, were Wat Tyler, as the first man; the second was 
John, or Jack, Straw," etc., etc. 

Stow's London. 



The Boar's Head Tavern 97 

his epitaph, the little sexton drew me on one side with a 
mysterious air, and informed me in a low voice that 
once upon a time, on a dark wintry night, when the wind 
was unruly, howling, and whistling, banging about doors 
and windows and twirling weathercocks, so that the liv- 5 
ing were frightened out of their beds, and even the dead 
could not sleep quietly in their graves, the ghost of honest 
Preston, which happened to be airing itself in the church- 
yard, was attracted by the well-known call of "Waiter! " 
from the Boar's Head, and made its sudden appearance 10 
in the midst of a roaring club, just as the parish clerk was 
singing a stave from the " mirre garland of Captain 
Death " ; to the discomfiture of sundry train-band captains 
and the conversion of an infidel attorney, who became a 
zealous Christian on the spot, and was never known 15 
to twist the truth afterwards, except in the way of 
business. 

I beg it may be remembered that I do not pledge my- 
self for the authenticity of this anecdote ; though it is 
well known that the churchyards and by-corners of this 20 
old metropolis are very much infested with perturbed 
spirits; and every one must have heard of the Cock Lane 
ghost, and the apparition that guards the regalia in the 
Tower, which has frightened so many bold sentinels almost 
out of their wits. 25 

Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston seems to have 
been a worthy successor to the nimble-tongued Francis 
who attended upon the revels of Prince Hal ; to have been 
equally prompt with his "Anon, anon, sir!" and to have 
transcended his predecessor in honesty; for Falstaff, the 30 
veracity of whose taste no man will venture to impeach, 
flatly accuses Francis of putting lime in his sack ; whereas 
honest Preston's epitaph lauds him for the sobriety of his 
conduct, the soundness of his wine, and the fairness of 



98 The Sketch Book 

his measure/ The worthy dignitaries of the church, 
however, did not appear much captivated by the sober 
virtues of the tapster; the deputy organist, who had a 
' moist look out of the eye, made some shrewd remark 
5 on the abstemiousnqss of a man brought up among full 
hogsheads; and the little sexton corroborated his opinion 
by a significant wink and a dubious shake of the 
head. 

Thus far my researches, though they threw much light 

10 on the history of tapsters, fishmongers, and Lord Mayors, 
yet disappointed me in the great object of my quest, the 
picture of the Boar's Head Tavern. No such painting 
was to be found in the church of St. Michael. " Marry 
and amen!" said I, "here endeth my research!" So 

15 I was giving the matter up with the air of a baffled 
antiquary, when my friend the sexton, perceiving me to 
be curious in everything relative to the old tavern, offered 
to show me the choice vessels of the vestry, which had 
been handed down from remote times when the parish 

20 meetings were held at the Boar's Head. These were de- 



^ As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I transcribe 
it for the admonition of delinquent tapsters. It is, no doubt, the 
production of some choice spirit, who once frequented the Boar's 
Head. 

Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise, 
Produced one sober son, and here he lies. 
Though rear'd among full hogsheads, he defy'd 
The charms of wine, and every one beside. 
O reader, if to justice thou'rt inclined, 
Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind. 
He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots, 
Had sundry virtues that excused his faults. 
You that on Bacchus have the like dependence, 
Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance. 



The Boar's Head Tavern 99 

posited in the parish club-room, which had been trans- 
ferred, on the decline of the ancient establishment, to a 
tavern in the neighborhood. 

A few steps brought us to the house which stands 
No. 12 Miles Lane, bearing the title of The Mason's 5 
Arms, and is kept by Master Edward Honeyball, the 
" bully-rock " of the establishment. It is one of those little 
taverns which abound in the heart of a city, and form 
the center of gossip and intelligence of the neighborhood. 
We entered the bar-room, which was narrow and darkling; 10 
for in those close lanes but few rays of reflected light are 
enabled to struggle down to the inhabitants, whose broad 
day is at best but a tolerable twilight. The room was 
partitioned into boxes, each containing a table spread 
with a clean white cloth ready for dinner. This showed 15 
that the guests were of the good old stamp, and divided 
their day equally, for it was but just one o'clock. At 
the lower end of the room was a clear coal fire before 
which a breast of lamb was roasting. A row of bright 
brass candlesticks and pewter mugs glistened along the 20 
mantelpiece, and an old-fashioned clock ticked in one 
corner. There was something primitive in this medley 
of kitchen, parlor, and hall, that carried me back to earlier 
times, and pleased me. The place, indeed, was humble, 
but everything had that look of order and neatness which 25 
bespeaks the superintendence of a notable English house- 
wife. A group of amphibious-looking beings, who might 
be either fishermen or sailors, were regaling themselves in 
one of the boxes. As I was a visitor of rather high pre- 
tensions, I was ushered into a little misshapen back-room, 30 
having at least nine corners. It was lighted by a skylight, 
furnished with antiquated leathern chairs, and ornamented 
with the portrait of a fat pig. It was evidently appro- 
priated to particular customers, and I found a shabby gen- 



lOO The Sketch Book 

tleman in a red nose and oil-cloth hat seated in one corner, 
meditating on a half-empty pot of porter. 

The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and 
with an air of profound importance imparted to her my 
5 errand. Dame Honeyball was a likely, plump, bustling 
little woman, and no bad substitute for that paragon of 
hostesses, Dame Quickly. She seemed delighted with an 
opportunity to oblige; and hurrying up-stairs to the 
archives of her house, where the precious vessels of the 

10 parish club were deposited, she returned, smiling and 
courtesying, with them in her hands. 

The first she presented me was a japanned iron to- 
bacco-box of gigantic size, out of which, I was told, the 
vestry had smoked at their stated meetings since time 

15 immemorial; and which was never suffered to be pro- 
faned by vulgar hands, or used on common occasions. 
I received it with becoming reverence; but what was my 
delight at beholding on its cover the identical painting 
of which I was in quest! There was displayed the out- 

20 side of the Boar's Head Tavern, and before the door was 
to be seen the whole convivial group, at table, in full 
revel; pictured with that wonderful fidelity and force 
with which the portraits of renowned generals and com- 
modores are illustrated on tobacco-boxes, for the benefit 

25 of posterity. Lest, however, there should be any mistake, 
the cunning limner had warily inscribed the names of 
Prince Hal and Falstaff on the bottoms of their chairs. 

On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly 
obliterated, recording that this box was the gift of Sir 

30 Richard Gore, for the use of the vestry meetings at the 
Boar's Head Tavern, and that it was " repaired and beau- 
tified by his successor, Mr. John Packard, 1767." Such 
is a faithful description of this august and venerable 
relic; and I question whether the learned Scriblerus con- 



The Boar's Head Tavern loi 

templated his Roman shield, or the Knights of the Round 
Table the long-sought Sangreal, with more exultation. 

While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze, 
Dame Honeyball, who was highly gratified by the inter- 
est it excited, put in my hands a drinking cup or goblet 5 
w^hich also belonged to the vestry, and was descended 
from the old Boar's Head. It bore the inscription of 
having been the gift of Francis Wythers, knight, and 
was held, she told me, in exceeding great value, being 
considered very " antyke." Thislast opinion was strength- lo 
ened by the shabby gentleman in the red nose and oil- 
cloth hat, and whom I strongly suspected of being a lineal 
descendant from the valiant Bardolph. He suddenly 
roused from his meditation on the pot of porter, and cast- 
ing a knowing look at the goblet, exclaimed, ''Ay, ay! the 15 
head don't ache now that made that there article!" 

The great importance attached to this memento of 
ancient revelry by modern churchwardens at first puz- 
zled me; but there is nothing sharpens the apprehension 
so" much as antiquarian research ; for I immediately per- 20 
ceived that this could be no other than the identical 
" parcel-gilt goblet " on which Falstaff made his loving 
but faithless vow to Dame Quickly; and which would, 
of course, be treasured up with care among the regalia of 
her domains, as a testimony of that solemn contract.^ 25 

Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history how the 
goblet had been handed down from generation to gener- 

^ Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in 
my Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on 
Wednesday, in Whitsunweek, when the prince broke thy head for 
likening his father to a singing man at Windsor; thou didst 
swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me, 
and make me my lady, thy wife. Canst thou deny it? — Henry 
IV., Part II. 



102 The Sketch Book 

ation. She also entertained me with many particulars 
concerning the worthy vestrymen who have seated them- 
selves thus quietly on the stools of the ancient roysters 
of Eastcheap, and like so many commentators, utter clouds 
5 of smoke in honor of Shakespeare. These I forbear to 
relate, lest my readers should not be as curious in these 
matters as myself. Suffice it to say, the neighbors one 
and all about Eastcheap believe that Falstal? and his 
merry crew actually lived and reveled there. Nay, there 

10 are several legendary anecdotes concerning him still extant 
among the oldest frequenters of the Mason's Arms, which 
they give as transmitted down from their forefathers ; and 
Mr. M'Kash, an Irish hairdresser, whose shop stands on 
the site of the old Boar's Head, has several dry jokes 

15 of fat Jack's, not laid down in the books, with which he 
makes his customers ready to die of laughter. 

I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some 
further inquiries, but I found him sunk in pensive medi- 
tation. His head had declined a little on one side ; a 

20 deep sigh heaved from the very bottom of his stomach ; 
and though I could not see a tear trembling in his eye, 
yet a moisture was evidently stealing from a corner of 
his mouth. I followed the direction of his eye through 
the door which stood open, and found it fixed wistfully 

25 on the savory breast of lamb roasting in dripping rich- 
ness before the fire. 

I now called to mind that in the eagerness of my 
recondite investigation I was keeping the poor man from 
his dinner. My bowels yearned with sympathy, and 

30 putting m his hand a small token of my gratitude and 
goodness, I departed, with a hearty benediction on him, 
Dame Honeyball, and the Parish Club of Crooked Lane — 
not forgetting my shabby but sententious friend in the oil- 
cloth hat and copper nose. 



The Boar's Head Tavern 103 

Thus have I given a " tedious brief " account of this 
interesting research, for which, if it prove too short and 
unsatisfactory, I can only plead my inexperience in this 
branch of literature so deservedly popular at the present 
day. I am aware that a more skilful illustrator of the 5 
immortal bard would have swelled the materials I have 
touched upon to a good merchantable bulk; comprising 
the biographies of William Walworth, Jack Straw, and 
Robert Preston ; some notice of the eminent fishmongers 
of St. Michael's ; the history of Eastcheap, great and little ; 10 
private anecdotes of Dame Honeyball and her pretty 
daughter, whom I have not even mentioned ; to say 
nothing of a damsel tending the breast of lamb (and whom 
by the way I remarked to be a comely lass, with a neat 
foot and ankle), — the whole enlivened by the riots of Wat 15 
Tyler, and illuminated by the great fire of London. 

All this I leave as a rich mine to be worked by future 
commentators; nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco- 
box and the " parcel-gilt goblet " which I have thus brought 
to light the subjects of future engravings, and almost as 20 
fruitful of voluminous dissertations and disputes as the 
shield of Achilles or the far-famed Portland vase. 



RURAL FUNERALS 

Here's a few flowers! but about midnight more: 
The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night; 
Are strewings fitt'st for graves — 
You were as flowers now wither'd ; even so 
These herblets shall, which we upon you strow. 

Cymbeline. 

Among the beautiful and simple-hearted customs of 
rural life which still linger in some parts of England, 
are those of strewing flowers before the funerals, and 
planting them at the graves of departed friends. These, 
5 it is said, are the remains of some of the rites of the 
primitive church; but they are of still higher antiquity, 
having been observed among the Greeks and Romans, 
and frequently mentioned by their writers, and were, no 
doubt, the spontaneous tributes of unlettered affection, 

10 originating long before art had tasked itself to modulate 
sorrow into song, or story it on the monument. They 
are now only to be met with in the most distant and retired 
places of the kingdom, where fashion and innovation have 
not been able to throng in, and trample out all the curious 

15 and interesting traces of the olden time. 

In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon the 
corpse lies is covered with flowers, a custom alluded to 
in one of the wild and plaintive ditties of Ophelia: 

White his shroud as the mountain snow 
20 Larded all with sweet flowers; 

Which be-wept to the grave did go, 
With true love showers. 
104 



Rural Funerals 105 

There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite ob- 
served in some of the remote villages of the south, at the 
funeral of a female who has died young and unmarried. 
A chaplet of wiu'te flowers is borne before the corpse by 
a young girl nearest in age, size, and resemblance, and is 5 
afterwards hung up in the church over the accustomed 
seat of the deceased. These chaplets are sometimes made 
of white paper, in imitation of flowers, and inside of them 
is generally a pair of white gloves. They are intended as 
emblems of the purity of the deceased and the crown of 10 
glory w^hich she has received in heaven. 

In some parts of the country, also, the dead are carried 
to the grave with the singing of psalms and hymns: a 
kind of triumph, " to show," says Bourne, " that they have 
finished their course with joy, and are become con- 15 
querors." This, I am informed, is observed in some of the 
northern counties, particularly in Northumberland, and 
it has a pleasing, though melancholy effect, to hear of a 
still evening in some lonely country scene the mournful 
melody of a funeral dirge swelling from a distance, and 20 
to see the train slowly moving along the landscape. 

Thus, dius, and thus, we compass round 
Thy harmlesse and unhaunted ground, 
And as we sing diy dirge, we will 

The daffodill 25 

And other flowers lay upon 
The altar of our love, thy stone. 

Herrick. 

There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveler to 
the passing funeral in these sequestered places; for such 
spectacles, occurring among the quiet abodes of nature, 30 
sink deep into the soul. As the mourning train approaches, 
he pauses, uncovered, to let it go by; he then follows 
silently in the rear ; sometimes quite to the grave, at other 



io6 The Sketch Book 

times for a few hundred yards, and having paid this 
tribute of respect to the deceased, turns and resumes his 
journey. 

The rich vein of melancholy which runs through the 
5 English character and gives it some of its most touch- 
ing and ennobling graces, is finely evidenced in these 
pathetic customs, and in the solicitude shown by the 
common people for an honored and a peaceful grave. The 
humblest peasant, whatever may be his lowly lot while liv- 

10 ing, is anxious that some little respect may be paid to his 
remains. Sir Thomas Overbury, describing the " faire 
and happy milkmaid," observes, " thus lives she, and all 
her care is, that she may die in the springtime, to have 
store of flowers stucke upon her winding-sheet." The 

15 poets, too, who always breathe the feeling of a nation, 
continually advert to this fond solicitude about the grave. 
In The Maid's Tragedy, by Beaumont and Fletcher, there 
is a beautiful instance of the kind, describing the capricious 
melancholy of a broken-hearted girl: 

20 When she sees a bank 

Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell 
Her servants, what a pretty place it were 
To bury lovers in; and make her maids 
Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. 

25 The custom of decorating graves was once universally 
prevalent: osiers were carefully bent over them to keep 
the turf uninjured, and about them were planted ever- 
greens and flowers. " We adorn their graves," says 
Evelyn, in his Sylva, " with flowers and redolent plants, 

30 just emblems of the life of man, which has been com- 
pared in Holy Scriptures to those fading beauties, whose 
roots being buried in dishonor, rise again in glory." This 
usage has now become extremely rare in England; but it 



Rural Funerals 107 

may still be met with in the churchyards of retired vil- 
lages among the Welsh mountains; and I recollect an 
instance of it at the small town of Ruthen, which lies at 
the head of the beautiful vale of Ciewyd. I have been 
told also by a friend, who was present /^at the funeral 5 
of a young girl in Glamorganshire, that the female at- 
tendants had their aprons full of flowers, which, as soon 
as the body was interred, they stuck about the grave. 

He noticed several graves which had been decorated in 
the same manner. As the flowers had been merely stuck 10 
in the ground, and not planted, they had soon withered, 
and might be seen in various states of decay; some droop- 
ing, others quite perished. They were afterwards to be 
supplanted by holly, rosemary, and other evergreens, which 
on some graves had grown to great luxuriance, and over- 15 
shadowed the tombstones. 

There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in the 
arrangement of these rustic offerings, that had something 
in it truly poetical. The rose was sometimes blended with 
the lily, to form a general emblem of frail mortality. 20 
" This sweet flower," said Evelyn, " borne on a branch set 
with thorns and accompanied w^ith the lily, are natural 
hieroglyphics of our fugitive, umbratile, anxious, and tran- 
sitory life, which, making so fair a show for a time, is not 
yet without its thorns and crosses." The nature and color 25 
of the flowers and of the ribbons with which they were 
tied had often a particular reference to the qualities or 
story of the deceased, or were expressive of the feelings of 
the mourner. In an old poem, entitled Corydons Doleful 
Knellj a lover specifies the decorations he intends to use : 30 

A garland shall be framed 

By art and nature's skill, 
Of sundry-color'd flowers, 

In token of good-will. 



io8 The Sketch Book 

And sundry-color'd ribands 

On it I will bestow; 
But chiefly blacke and yellowe 

With her to grave shall go. 

5 I'll deck her tomb with flowers, 

The rarest ever seen ; 
And with my tears as showers, 
I'll keep them fresh and green. 

The white rose, we are told, was planted at the grave 

ip of a virgin ; her chaplet was tied with white ribbons 
in token of her spotless innocence, though sometimes black 
ribbons were intermingled to bespeak the grief of the 
survivors. The red rose was occasionally used in remem- 
brance of such as had been remarkable for benevolence ; 

15 but roses in general were appropriated to the graves of 
lovers. Evelyn tells us that the custom was not altogether 
extinct in his time, near his dwelling in the county of 
Surrey, " where the maidens yearly planted and decked the 
graves of their defunct sweethearts with rose-bushes." 

20 And Camden likewise remarks, in his Britannia: " Here is 
also a certain custom, observed time out of mind, of plant- 
ing rose-trees upon the graves, especially by the young 
men and maids who have lost their loves; so that this 
churchyard is now full of them." 

25 When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, 
emblems of a more gloomy character were used, such as 
the yew and cypress; and if flowers were strewn, they 
were of the most melancholy colors. Thus, in poems 
by Thomas Stanley, Esq. (published in 1651), is the fol- 

30 lowing stanza : 

Yet strew 
Upon my dismall grave 
Such ofi^erings as you have, 

Forsaken cypresse and sad yewe; 



Rural Funerals 109 

For kinder flowers can take no birth 
Or growth from such unhappy earth. 

In The Maid's Tragedy a pathetic little air is intro- 
duced, illustrative of this mode of decorating the funerals 
of females who had been disappointed in love: 5 

Lay a garland on my hearse, 

Of the dismall yew, 
Maidens, willow branches w-ear, 

Say I died true. 

My love was false, but I was firm, lO 

From my hour of birth. 
Upon my buried body lie 

Lightly, gentle earth. 

The natural eKect of sorrow over the dead is to refine 
and elevate the mind; and we have a proof of it in the 15 
purity of sentiment and the unaffected elegance of thought 
which pervaded the whole of these funeral observances. 
Thus, it was an especial precaution that none but sweet- 
scented evergreens and flowers should be employed. The 
intention seems to have been to soften the horrors of the 20 
tomb, to beguile the mind from brooding over the dis- 
graces of perishing mortality, and to associate the memory 
of the deceased with the most delicate and beautiful ob- 
jects in nature. There is a dismal process going on in the 
grave ere dust can return to its kindred dust, which the 25 
imagination shrinks from contemplating; and we seek 
still to think of the form we have loved with those refined 
associations which it awakened when blooming before us 
in youth and beauty. " Lay her i' the earth," says Laertes, 
of his virgin sister, 30 

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
May violets spring! 



no The Sketch Book 

Herrick, also, in his Dirge of Jephtha, pours forth a 
fragrant flow of poetical thought and image, which in 
a manner embalms the dead in the recollections of the 
living. 

5 Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, 

And make this place all Paradise: 
May sweets grow here! and smoke from hence 

Fat frankincense. 
Let balme and cassia send their scent 
10 From out thy maiden monument. 

******* 

May all shie maids at wonted hours 
Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers! 
May virgins, when they come to mourn, 
Male incense burn 
IS Upon thine altar! then return 

And leave thee sleeping in thine urn. 

I might crowd my pages with extracts from the older 
British poets who wrote when these rites were more 
prevalent, and delighted frequently to allude to them; 

20 but I have already quoted more than is necessary. I 
cannot, however, refrain from giving a passage from 
Shakespeare, even though it should appear trite, which 
illustrates the emblematical meaning often conveyed in 
these floral tributes, and at the same time possesses that 

25 magic of language and appositeness of imagery for which 
he stands pre-eminent. 

With fairest flowers. 
Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
I'll sweeten thy sad grave; thou shalt not lack 
30 The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor 

The azured harebell, like thy veins; no, nor 
The leaf of eglantine; whom not to slander, 
Outsweeten'd not thy breath. 



Rural Funerals 1 1 1 

There is certainly something more affecting in these 
prompt and spontaneous offerings of nature than in the 
most costly monuments of art ; the hand strews the flower 
while the heart is warm, and the tear falls on the grave 
as affection is binding the osier round the sod ; but pathos 5 
expires under the slow labor of the chisel, and is chilled 
among the cold conceits of sculptured marble. 

It is greatly to be regretted that a custom so truly 
elegant and touching has disappeared from general use, 
and exists only in the most remote and insignificant vil- 10 
lages. But it seems as if poetical custom always shuns 
the walks of cultivated society. In proportion as people 
grow polite they cease to be poetical. They talk of poetry, 
but they have learnt to check its free impulses, to distrust 
its sallying emotions, and to supply its most affecting and 15 
picturesque usages by studied form and pompous cere- 
monial. Few pageants can be more stately and frigid 
than an English funeral in town. It is made up of show 
and gloomy parade; mourning carriages, mourning horses, 
mourning plumes, and hireling mourners who make a 20 
m.ockery of grief. " There is a grave digged," says Jeremy 
Taylor, " and a solemn mourning and a great talk in the 
neighborhood, and when the daies are finished, they shall 
be, and they shall be remembered no more." The asso- 
ciate in the gay and crowded city is soon forgotten; the 25 
hurrying succession of new intimates and new pleasures 
effaces him from our minds, and the very scenes and circles 
in which he moved are incessantly fluctuating. But fu- 
nerals in the country are solemnly impressive. The stroke 
of death makes a wider space in the village circle, and 30 
is an awful event in the tranquil uniformity of rural life. 
The passing bell tolls its knell in every ear ; it steals with 
its pervading melancholy over hill and vale, and saddens 
all the landscape. 



1 1 2 The Sketch Book 

The fixed and unchanging features of the country also 
perpetuate the memory of the friend with whom we once 
enjoyed them ; who was the companion of our most retired 
walks, and gave animation to every lonely scene. His 
5 idea is associated with every charm of nature ; we hear 
his voice in the echo which he once delighted to awaken; 
his spirit haunts the grove which he once frequented; 
we think of him in the wild upland solitude or amidst 
the pensive beauty of the valley. In the freshness of joy- 
10 ous morning, we remember his beaming smiles and bound- 
ing gayety ; and when sober evening returns with its gath- 
ering shadows and subduing quiet, we call to mind many a 
twilight hour of gentle talk and sweet-souled melancholy. 

Each lonely place shall him restore, 
15 For him the tear be duly shed; 

Belov'd, till life can charm no more; 
And mourn'd till pity's self be dead. 

Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the de- 
ceased in the country is that the grave is more immediately 

20 in sight of the survivors. They pass it on their way to 
prayer, it meets their eyes when their hearts are softened 
by the exercises of devotion ; they linger about it on the 
Sabbath, when the mind is disengaged from worldly cares, 
and most disposed to turn aside from present pleasures 

25 and present loves and to sit down among the solemn 
mementos of the past. In North Wales the peasantry 
kneel and pray over the graves of their deceased friends 
for several Sundays after the interment; and where the 
tender rite of strewing and planting flowers is still prac- 

30 tised, it is always renewed on Easter, Whitsuntide, and 
other festivals, when the season brings the companion of 
former festivity more vividly to mind. It is also Invari- 
ably performed by the nearest relatives and friends; no 



Rural Funerals 113 

menials nor hirelings are employed ; and if a neighbor 
yields assistance, it would be deemed an insult to offer 
compensation. 

I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, because, 
as it is one of the last, so is it one of the holiest offices of 5 
love. The grave is the ordeal of true affection. It is there 
that the divine passion of the soul manifests its superiority 
to the instinctive impulse of mere animal attachment. The 
latter must be continually refreshed and kept alive by the 
presence of its object; but the love that is seated in the 10 
soul can live on long remembrance. The mere inclinations 
of sense languish and decline with the charms that excited 
them, and turn with shuddering disgust from the dismal 
precincts of the tomb; but it is thence that truly spiritual 
affection rises, purified from every sensual desire, and re- 15 
turns like a holy flame to illumine and sanctify the heart of 
the survivor. 

The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which 
we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek 
to heal — every other affliction to forget; but this wound 20 
we consider it a duty to keep open — this affliction we 
cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother 
who would willingly forget the infant that perished like 
a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a 
pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget 25 
the most tender of parents, though to remember be but 
to lament? Who, even in the hour of agony, would for- 
get the friend over whom he mourns? Who, even when 
the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most 
loved, when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the 30 
closing of its portal, would accept of consolation that 
must be bought by forgetfulness? — No, the love which 
survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the 
soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and 



114 The Sketch Book 

when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the 
gentle tear of recollection, when the sudden anguish and 
the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we 
most loved is softened away into pensive meditation on 
5 all that it was in the days of its loveliness — who would 
root out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may 
sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour 
of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of 
gloom, yet who would exchange it even for the song of 

10 pleasure or the burst of revelry? No, there is a voice from 
the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance 
of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of 
the living. Oh, the grave! — the grave! — It buries every 
error — covers every defect — extinguishes every resent- 

iSment! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond 
regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon 
the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious 
throb, that he should ever have warred with the poor 
handful of earth that lies mouldering before him ? 

20 But the grave of those we loved — what a place for 
meditation! There it is that we call up in long review 
the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thou- 
sand endearments lavished upon us almost unheeded in the 
daily intercourse of intimacy — there it is that we dwell 

25 upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the 
parting scene. The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs 
— Its noiseless attendance — its mute, watchful assiduities. 
The last testimonies of expiring love! The feeble, flutter- 
ing, thrilling — oh! how thrilling! — pressure of the hand! 

30 The faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give 
one more assurance of affection! The last fond look of 
the glazing eye, turned upon us even from the threshold 
of existence ! 

Ay, go to the grave of burled love and meditate ! There 



Rural Funerals 115 

settle the account with thy conscience for every past 
benefit unrequited — every past endearment unregarded of 
that departed being who can never — never — never return 
to be soothed by thy contrition! 

If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to 5 
the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affection- 
ate parent — if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused 
the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy 
arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth — 
if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or 10 
word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee — 
if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang 
to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath 
thy feet, — then be sure that every unkind look, every un- 
gracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging 15 
back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy 
soul — then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and 
repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and 
pour the unavailing tear; more deep, more bitter, be- 
cause unheard and unavailing. 20 

Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beau- 
ties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, 
if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of 
regret; but take warning by the bitterness of this thy 
contrite afl^iction over the dead, and henceforth be more 25 
faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to 
the living. 



In writing the preceding article, it was not intended 
to give a full detail of the funeral customs of the English 
peasantry, but merely to furnish a few hints and quota- 30 
tions illustrative of particular rites, to be appended by 
way of note to another paper, which has been withheld. 



1 1 6 The Sketch Book 

The article swelled insensibly into its present form, and 
this is mentioned as an apology for so brief and casual a 
notice of these usages, after they have been amply and 
learnedly investigated in other works. 
5 I must observe, also, that I am well aware that this 
custom of adorning graves with flowers prevails in other 
countries besides England. Indeed, in some it is much 
more general, and is observed even by the rich and fashion- 
able ; but it is then apt to lose its simplicity and to degen- 

10 erate into affectation. Bright, in his travels in Lower 
Hungary, tells of monuments of marble, and recesses 
formed for retirement with seats placed among bowers of 
greenhouse plants; and that the graves generally are cov- 
ered with the gayest flowers of the season. He gives a 

15 casual picture of filial piety which I cannot but transcribe, 
for I trust it is as useful as it is delightful to illustrate 
the amiable virtues of the sex. " When I was at Berlin," 
says he, " I followed the celebrated Mand to the grave. 
Mingled with some pomp you might trace much real 

20 feeling. In the midst of the ceremony, my attention was 
attracted by a young woman who stood on a mound of 
earth newly covered with turf, which she anxiously pro- 
tected from the feet of the passing crowd. It was the 
tomb of her parent; and the figure of this affectionate 

25 daughter presented a monument more striking than the 
most costly work of art." 

I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decoration 
that I once met with skmong the mountains of Switzer- 
land. It was at the villa of Gersau, which stands on the 

30 borders of the Lake of Lucerne at the foot of Mount Rigi. 
It was once the capital of a miniature republic, shut up 
between the Alps and the Lake, and accessible on the 
land side only by footpaths. The whole force of the 
republic did not exceed six hundred fighting men; and a 



Rural Funerals 117 

few miles of circumference, scooped out as it were from 
the bosom of the mountains, comprised its territory. The 
village of Gersau seemed separated from the rest of the 
world, and retained the golden simplicity of a purer age. 
It had a small church, with a burying-ground adjoining. 5 
At the heads of the graves were placed crosses of wood 
or iron. On some were affixed miniatures, rudely executed, 
but evidently attempts at likenesses of the deceased. On 
the crosses were hung chaplets of flowers, some withering, 
others fresh, as if occasionally renewed. I paused with 10 
interest at this scene ; I felt that I was at the source of 
poetical description, for these were the beautiful but un- 
aifected offerings of the heart which poets are fain to 
record. In a gayer and more populous place, I should have 
suspected them to have been suggested by factitious senti- 15 
ment derived from books; but the good people of Gersau 
knew little of books; there was not a novel nor a love- 
poem in the village; and I question whether any peasant 
of the place dreamt, while he was twining a fresh chaplet 
for the grave of his mistress, that he was fulfilling one of 20 
the most fanciful rites of poetical devotion, and that he was 
practically a poet. 



THE INN KITCHEN 

Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn? 

Falstaff. 

During a journey that I once made through the 
Netherlands, I arrived one evening at the Pomtne d'Or, 
the principal inn of a small Flemish village. It was after 
the hour of the table d'hote, so that I was obliged to 
5 make a solitary supper from the relics of its ampler board. 
The weather was chilly; I was seated alone in one end 
of a great gloomy dining-room, and my repast being over, 
I had the prospect before me of a long dull evening, with- 
out any visible means of enlivening it. I summoned mine 

10 host, and requested something to read ; he brought me 
the whole literary stock of his household : a Dutch family 
Bible, an almanac in the same language, and a number of 
old Paris newspapers. As I sat dozing over one of the 
latter, reading old and stale criticisms, my ear was now 

15 and then struck with bursts of laughter which seemed to 
proceed from the kitchen. Every one that has traveled on 
the continent must know how favorite a resort the kitchen 
of a country inn is to the middle and inferior order of 
travelers; particularly in that equivocal kind of weather 

20 when a fire becomes agreeable toward evening. I threw 
aside the newspaper and explored my way to the kitchen, to 
take a peep at the group that appeared to be so merry. It 
was composed partly of travelers who had arrived some 
hours before in a diligence, and partly of the usual attend- 

25 ants and hangers-on of inns. They were seated round a 

ii8 



The Inn Kitchen 119 

great burnished stove, that might have been mistaken for 
an altar at which they were worshipping. It was covered 
with various kitchen vessels of resplendent brightness, 
among which steamed and hissed a huge copper tea- 
kettle. A large lamp threw a strong mass of light upon 5 
the group, bringing out many odd features in strong relief. 
Its yellow rays partially illumined the spacious kitchen, 
dying duskily away into remote corners, except where 
they settled in mellow radiance on the broad side of a 
flitch of bacon, or were reflected back from well-scoured 10 
utensils that gleamed from the midst of obscurity. A 
strapping Flemish lass, with long golden pendants in her 
ears and a necklace with a golden heart suspended to it, 
w^as the presiding priestess of the temple. 

Many of the company were furnished with pipes, and 15 
most of them with some kind of evening potation. I 
found their mirth was occasioned by anecdotes which a 
little swarthy Frenchman, with a dry weazen face and 
large whiskers, was giving of his love adventures; at the 
end of each of which there was one of those bursts of 20 
honest unceremonious laughter in which a man indulges in 
that temple of true liberty, an inn. 

As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious 
blustering evening, I took my seat near the stove, and 
listened to a variety of traveler's tales, some very extrava- 25 
gant and most very dull. All of them, however, have 
faded from my treacherous memory except one, which I 
will endeavor to relate. I fear, however, it derived its 
chief zest from the manner in which It was told, and the 
peculiar air and appearance of the narrator. He was a 30 
corpulent old Swiss, who had the look of a veteran trav- 
eler. He was dressed in a tarnished green traveling-jacket, 
with a broad belt round his waist, and a pair of overalls 
with buttons from the hips to the ankles. He w^as of a 



I20 The Sketch Book 

full, rubicund countenance, with a double chin, aquiline 
nose, and a pleasant, twinkling eye. His hair was light, 
and curled from under an old green velvet traveling-cap 
stuck on one side of his head. He was interrupted more 

5 than once by the arrival of guests or the remarks of his 
auditors, and paused now and then to replenish his pipe, at 
which times he had generally a roguish leer and a sly joke 
for the buxom kitchen-maid. 

I wish my readers could imagine the old fellow lolling 

10 in a huge armchair, one arm akimbo, the other holding a 
curiously twisted tobacco pipe formed of genuine ecume 
de mer, decorated with silver chain and silken tassel, his 
head cocked on one side, and the whimsical cut of the eye 
occasionally, as he related the following story. 



THE SPECTER BRIDEGROOM 

A TRAVELER'S TALE' 

He that supper for is dight, 

He lyes full cold, I trow, this night! 

Yestreen to chamber I him led, 

This night Gray-Steel has made his bed. 

Sir Eger, Sir Grahame, and Sir Gray-Steel. 

On the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, 
a wild and romantic tract of Upper Germany that lies 
not far from the confluence of the Main and the Rhine, 
there stood, many, many years since, the castle of the 
Baron Von Landshort. It is now quite fallen to decay 5 
and almost burled among beech trees and dark firs; above 
which, ho\^•ever, its old watchtower may still be seen, 
struggling, like the former possessor I have mentioned, 
to carry a high head and look down upon the neighboring 
country. 10 

The baron was a dry branch of the great family of 
Katzenellenbogen,- and inherited the relics of the prop- 
erty and all the pride of his ancestors. Though the 

^The "erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, will 
perceive that the above Tale must have been suggested to the old 
Swiss by a little French anecdote, a circumstance said to have 
taken place at Paris. 

'I.e., Cat's-Elbow. The name of a family of those parts very 
powerful in former times. The appellation, we are told, was 
given in compliment to a peerless dame of the family, celebrated 
for her fine arm. 

121 



122 The Sketch Book 

warlike disposition of his predecessors had much impaired 
the family possessions, yet the baron still endeavored to 
keep up some show of former state. The times were peace- 
able, and the German nobles in general had abandoned 
5 their inconvenient old castles, perched like eagles' nests 
among the mountains, and had built more convenient 
residences in the valleys: still the baron remained proudly 
drawn up in his little fortress, cherishing with hereditary 
inveteracy all the old family feuds; so that he was on ill 

10 terms with some of his nearest neighbors, on account of 
disputes that had happened between their great-great- 
grandfathers. 

The baron had but one child, a daughter; but nature 
when she grants but one child always compensates by 

15 making it a prodigy; and so it was with the daughter of 
the baron. All the nurses, gossips, and country cousins 
assured her father that she had not her equal for beauty 
in all Germany; and who should know better than they? 
She had, moreover, been brought up with great care under 

20 the superintendence of two maiden aunts, who had spent 
some years of their early life at one of the little German 
courts, and were skilled in all the branches of knowledge 
necessary to the education of a fine lady. Under their 
instructions she became a miracle of accomplishments. By 

25 the time she was eighteen she could embroider to admira- 
tion, and had worked whole histories of the saints in 
tapestry, with such strength of expression in their counte- 
nances that they looked like so many souls in purgatory. 
She could read without great difficulty, and had spelled 

30 her way through several church legends, and almost all the 
chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch. She had even made 
considerable proficiency in writing; could sign her own 
name without missing a letter, and so legibly that her 
aunts could read It without spectacles. She excelled in 



The Specter Bridegroom 123 

making little elegant good-for-nothing lady-like knick- 
knacks of all kinds, was versed in the most abstruse danc- 
ing of the day, played a number of airs on the harp and 
guitar, and knew all the tender ballads of the Minnelieders 
by heart. 5 

Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes 
in their younger days, were admirably calculated to be 
vigilant guardians and strict censors of the conduct of 
their niece; for there is no duenna so rigidly prudent 
and inexorably decorous as a superannuated coquette. 10 
She was rarely suffered out of their sight; never went 
beyond the domains of the castle, unless well attended, 
or rather well watched ; had continual lectures read to 
her about strict decorum and implicit obedience; and as 
to the men — pah! — she was taught to hold them at such a 15 
distance and in such absolute distrust, that unless properly 
authorized, she would not have cast a glance upon the 
handsomest cavalier in the world — no, not if he were even 
dying at her feet. 

The good effects of this system w^ere wonderfully appar- 20 
ent. The young lady was a pattern of docility and cor- 
rectness. While others were wasting their sweetness in 
the glare of the world, and liable to be plucked and thrown 
aside by every hand, she was coyly blooming into fresh 
and lovely womanhood under the protection of those im- 25 
maculate spinsters, like a rosebud blushing forth among 
guardian thorns. Her aunts looked upon her with pride 
and exultation, and vaunted that though all the other 
young ladies in the world might go astray, yet, thank 
Heaven, nothing of the kind could happen to the heiress 30 
of Katzenellenbogen. 

But, however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might 
be provided with children, his household was by no means 
a small one; for Providence had enriched him with abun- 



124 The Sketch Book 

dance of poor relations. They, one and all, possessed 
the affectionate disposition common to humble relatives; 
were wonderfully attached to the baron, and took every 
possible occasion to come in swarms and enliven the castle. 
5 All family festivals were commemorated by these good 
people at the baron's expense; and when they were filled 
with good cheer, they would declare that there was nothing 
on earth so delightful as these family meetings, these 
jubilees of the heart. 

10 The baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and 
it swelled with satisfaction at the consciousness of being 
the greatest man in the little world about him. He loved 
to tell long stories about the dark old warriors whose 
portraits looked grimly down from the walls around, 

15 and he found no listeners equal to those that fed at his 
expense. He was much given to the marvelous, and a firm 
believer in all those supernatural tales with which every 
mountain and valley in Germany abounds. The faith of 
his guests exceeded even his own: they listened to every 

20 tale of wonder with open eyes and mouth, and never failed 
to be astonished, even though repeated for the hundredth 
time. Thus lived the Baron Von Landshort, the oracle 
of his table, the absolute monarch of his little territory, 
and happy above all things in the persuasion that he was 

25 the wisest man of the age. 

At the time of which my story treats there was a great 
family gathering at the castle, on an aft'air of the utmost 
importance: it was to receive the destined bridegroom of 
the baron's daughter. A negotiation had been carried on 

30 between the father and an old nobleman of Bavaria, to 
unite the dignity of their houses by the marriage of their 
children. The preliminaries had been conducted with 
proper punctilio. The young people were betrothed with- 
out seeing each other ; and the time was appointed for the 



The Specter Bridegroom 125 

marriage ceremony. The young Count Von Altenburg 
had been recalled from the army for the purpose, and was 
actually on his way to the baron's to receive his bride. 
Missives had even been received from him, from Wurtz- 
burg, where he was accidentally detained, mentioning the 5 
day and hour when he might be expected to arrive. 

The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him 
a suitable welcome. The fair bride had been decked out 
wnth uncommon care. The two aunts had superintended 
her toilet, and quarreled the whole morning about every 10 
article of her dress. The young lady had taken advan- 
tage of their contest to follow the bent of her own taste; 
and fortunately it was a good one. She looked as lovely 
as youthful bridegroom could desire ; and the flutter of 
expectation heightened the luster of her charms. 15 

The suiiusions that mantled her face and neck, the gen- 
tle heaving of the bosom, the eye now and then lost in 
reverie, all betrayed the soft tumult that was going on 
in her little heart. The aunts were continually hovering 
around her ; for maiden aunts are apt to take great interest 20 
in affairs of this nature. They were giving her a world 
of staid counsel how to deport herself, what to say, and in 
what manner to receive the expected lover. 

The baron was no less busied in preparations. He 
had in truth nothing exactly to do ; but he was naturally 25 
a fuming, bustling little man, and could not remain pas- 
sive when all the world was in a hurry. He worried 
from top to bottom of the castle with an air of infinite 
anxiety; he continually called the servants from their work 
to exhort them to be diligent ; and buzzed about every 30 
hall and chamber, as idly restless and importunate as a 
blue-bottle fly on a warm summer's day. 

In the meantime the fatted calf had been killed ; the 
forest had rung with the clamor of the huntsmen; the 



126 The Sketch Book 

kitchen was crowded with good cheer; the cellars had 
yielded up whole oceans of Rhein-wein and Ferne-wein; 
and even the great Heidelberg tun had been laid under 
contribution. Everything was ready to receive the dis- 
5 tinguished guest with Saus und Braus in the true spirit 
of German hospitality — but the guest delayed to make 
his appearance. Hour rolled after hour. The sun, that 
had poured his downward rays upon the rich forest of 
the Odenwald, now just gleamed along the summits of 

10 the mountains. The baron mounted the highest tower, 
and strained his eyes in hope of catching a distant sight 
of the count and his attendants. Once he thought he 
beheld them; the sound of horns came floating from the 
valley, prolonged by the mountain echoes. A number of 

15 horsemen were seen far below, slowly advancing along the 
road ; but when they had nearly reached the foot of the 
mountain, they suddenly struck off in a different direction. 
The last ray of sunshine departed — the bats began to flit 
by in the twilight — the road grew dimmer and dimmer to 

20 the view ; and nothing appeared stirring in it but now and 
then a peasant lagging homeward from his labor. 

While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of 
perplexity, a very interesting scene was transacting in a 
different part of the Odenwald. 

25 The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pur- 
suing his route in that sober jog-trot way in which a 
man travels toward matrimony when his friends have 
taken all the trouble and uncertainty of courtship off his 
hands, and a bride is waiting for him as certainly as a 

30 dinner at the end of his journey. He had encountered 
at Wurtzburg a youthful companion in arms with whom 
he had seen some service on the frontiers; Hermann Von 
Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands and worthiest 
hearts of German chivalry, who was now returning from 



The Specter Bridegroom 127 

the arm)-. His father's castle was not far distant from the 
old fortress of Landshort, although an hereditary feud 
rendered the families hostile and strangers to each other. 

In the warm-hearted moment of recognition the young 
friends related all their past adventures and fortunes, and 5 
the count gave the whole history of his intended nuptials 
with a young lady whom he had never seen, but of 
whose charms he had received the most enrapturing 
descriptions. 

As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, 10 
they agreed to perform the rest of their journey together; 
and that they might do it the more leisurely, set off from 
Wurtzburg at an early hour, the count having given direc- 
tions for his retinue to follow and overtake him. 

They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of 15 
their military scenes and adventures; but the count was 
apt to be a little tedious now and then about the reputed 
charms of his bride and the felicity that awaited him. 

In this way they had entered among the mountains of 
the Odenwald, and were traversing one of its most lonely 20 
and thickly wooded passes. It is well know-n that the 
forests of Germany have always been as much infested 
by robbers as its castles by specters; and at this time 
the former were particularly numerous, from the hordes 
of disbanded soldiers w^andering about the country. It 25 
will not appear extraordinary, therefore, that the cava- 
liers were attacked by a gang of these stragglers in the 
midst of the forest. They defended themselves with 
bravery, but were nearly overpowered when the count's 
retinue arrived to their assistance. At sight of them the 30 
robbers fled, but not until the count had received a mortal 
w^ound. He was slowly and carefully conveyed back to the 
city of Wurtzburg, and a friar summoned from a neigh- 
boring convent, who was famous for his skill in administer- 



128 The Sketch Book 

ing to both soul and body; but half of his skill was super- 
fluous; the moments of the unfortunate count were num- 
bered. 

With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair 
5 instantly to the castle of Landshort, and explain the 
fatal cause of his not keeping his appointment with his 
bride. Though not the most ardent of lovers, he was one 
of the most punctilious of men, and appeared earnestly 
solicitous that his mission should be speedily and courte- 

10 ously executed. " Unless this is done," said he, '* I shall 
not sleep quietly in my grave!" He repeated these last 
words with peculiar solemnity. A request at a moment 
so impressive admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust en- 
deavored to soothe him to calmness, promised faithfully 

15 to execute his wish, and gave him his hand in solemn 
pledge. The dying man pressed it in acknowledgment, 
but soon lapsed into delirium — raved about his bride — 
his engagements — his plighted word ; ordered his horse, 
that he might ride to the castle of Landshort ; and expired 

20 in the fancied act of vaulting into the saddle. 

Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear on the 
untimely fate of his comrade, and then pondered on the 
awkward mission he had undertaken. His heart was heavy 
and his head perplexed ; for he was to present himself an 

25 unbidden guest among hostile people, and to damp their 
festivity with tidings fatal to their hopes. Still there were 
certain whisperings of curiosity in his bosom to see this 
far-famed beauty of Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously shut 
up from the world ; for he was a passionate admirer of 

30 the sex, and there was a dash of eccentricity and enter- 
prise in his character that made him fond of all singular 
adventure. 

Previous to his departure he made all due arrangements 
with the holy fraternity of the convent for the funeral 



The Specter Bridegroom 129 

solemnities of his friend, who was to be buried in the 
cathedral of Wurtzburg, near some of his illustrious rela- 
tives; and the mourning retinue of the count took charge 
of his remains. 

It is now high time that we should return to the ancient 5 
family of Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their 
guest, and still more for their dinner; and to the worthy 
little baron, whom we left airing himself on the watch- 
tower. 

Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The baron 10 
descended from the tower in despair. The banquet, which 
had been delayed from hour to hour, could no longer be 
postponed. The meats were already overdone; the cook 
in an agony; and the whole household had the look of a 
garrison that had been reduced by famine. The baron 15 
was obliged reluctantly to give orders for the feast with- 
out the presence of the guest. All were seated at table, 
and just on the point of commencing, when the sound of a 
horn from without the gate gave notice of the approach 
of a stranger. Another long blast filled the old courts 20 
of the castle w^ith its echoes, and was answered by the 
warder from the walls. The baron hastened to receive his 
future son-in-law. 

The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger 
was before the gate. He was a tall, gallant cavalier, 25 
mounted on a black steed. His countenance was pale, 
but he had a beaming, romantic eye, and an air of stately 
melancholy. The baron was a little mortified that he 
should have come in this simple, solitary style. His 
dignity for a moment was ruffled, and he felt disposed 30 
to consider it a want of proper respect for the important 
occasion, and the important family with which he was to 
be connected. He pacified himself, however, with the 
conclusion that it must have been youthful impatience 



130 The Sketch Book 

which had induced him thus to spur on sooner than his 
attendants. 

" I am sorry," said the stranger, " to break in upon 
you thus unseasonably — " 
5 Here the baron interrupted him with a world of com- 
pliments and greetings; for, to tell the truth, he prided 
himself upon his courtesy and eloquence. The stranger 
attempted once or twice to stem the torrent of words, 
but in vain, so he bowed his head and suffered it to flow 

10 on. By the time the baron had come to a pause they 
had reached the inner court of the castle ; and the stranger 
was again about to speak, when he was once more inter- 
rupted by the appearance of the female part of the family, 
leading forth the shrinking and blushing bride. He gazed 

15 on her for a moment as one entranced ; it seemed as if his 
whole soul beamed forth in the gaze, and rested upon that 
lovely form. One of the maiden aunts whispered some- 
thing in her ear; she made an effort to speak; her moist 
blue eye was timidly raised, gave a shy glance of inquiry 

20 on the stranger, and was cast again to the ground. The 
words died away ; but there was a sweet smile playing 
about her lips, and a soft dimpling of the cheek that 
showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory. It was 
impossible for a girl of the fond age of eighteen, highly 

25 predisposed for love and matrimony, not to be pleased 
with so gallant a cavalier. 

The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no 
time for parley. The baron was peremptory, and deferred 
all particular conversation until the morning, and led the 

30 way to the untasted banquet. 

It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around 
the walls hung the hard-favored portraits of the heroes 
of the house of Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which 
they had gained in the field and in the chase. Hacked 



The Specter Bridegroom 131 

corselets, splintered jousting spears, and tattered banners 
were mingled with the spoils of sylvan warfare; the jaws 
of the wolf and the tusks of the boar grinned horribly 
among crossbows and battle-axes, and a huge pair of 
antlers branched immediately over the head of the youth- 5 
ful bridegroom. 

The cavalier took but little notice of the company or 
the entertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but 
seemed absorbed in admiration of his bride. He con- 
versed in a low tone that could not be overheard — for 10 
the language of love is never loud ; but where is the 
female ear so dull that it cannot catch the softest whis- 
per of the lover? There was a mingled tenderness and 
gravity in his manner, that appeared to have a powerful 
effect upon the young lady. Her color came and went 15 
as she listened with deep attention. Now and then she 
made some blushing reply, and when his eye was turned 
away, she would steal a sidelong glance at his romantic 
countenance, and heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness. 
It was evident that the young couple were completely 20 
enamored. The aunts, who were deeply versed in the 
mysteries of the heart, declared that they had fallen in 
love with each other at first sight. 

The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the 
guests were all blessed with those keen appetites that 25 
attend upon light purses and mountain air. The baron 
told his best and longest stories, and never had he told 
them so well or with such great effect. H there was any- 
thing marvelous, his auditors were lost in astonishment; 
and if anything facetious, they were sure to laugh exactly 30 
in the right place. The baron, it is true, like most great 
men, was too dignified to utter any joke but a dull one ; 
it was always enforced, however, by a bumper of excel- 
lent Hochheimer; and even a dull joke, at one's own 



132 The Sketch Book 

table, served up with jolly old wine, is irresistible. Many 
good things were said by poorer and keener wits that 
would not bear repeating, except on similar occasions; 
many sly speeches whispered in ladies' ears that almost 
5 convulsed them with suppressed laughter; and a song or 
two roared out by a poor, but merry and broad-faced 
cousin of the baron that absolutely made the maiden aunts 
hold up their fans. 

Amidst all this revelry the stranger guest maintained 

10 a most singular and unseasonable gravity. His coun- 
tenance assumed a deeper cast of dejection as the evening 
advanced; and, strange as it may appear, even the baron's 
jokes seemed only to render him the more melancholy. At 
times he was lost in thought, and at times there was a 

15 perturbed and restless wandering of the eye that bespoke 
a mind but ill at ease. His conversations with the bride 
became more and more earnest and mysterious. Lower- 
ing clouds began to steal over the fair serenity of her 
brow, and tremors to run through her tender frame. 

20 All this could not escape the notice of the company. 
Their gayety was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of 
the bridegroom; their spirits were infected; whispers and 
glances were interchanged, accompanied by shrugs and 
dubious shakes of the head. The song and the laugh 

25 grew less and less frequent ; there were dreary pauses 
in the conversation, which were at length succeeded by 
wild tales and supernatural legends. One dismal story 
produced another still more dismal, and the baron nearly 
frightened some of the ladies into hysterics with the 

30 history of the goblin horseman that carried away the fair 

Leonora; a dreadful story, which has since been put into 

excellent verse, and is read and believed by all the world. 

The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound 

attention. He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the baron, 



The Specter Bridegroom 133 

and as the story drew to a close began gradually to rise 
from his seat, growing taller and taller, until in the 
baron's entranced eye he seemed almost to tower into a 
giant. The moment the tale was finished he heaved a 
deep sigh and took a solemn farewell of the company. 5 
They were all amazement. The baron was perfectly 
thunderstruck. 

''What! going to leave the castle at midnight? why, 
everything was prepared for his reception ; a chamber was 
ready for him if he wished to retire." 10 

The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteri- 
ously: "I must lay my head in a different chamber to- 
night!" 

There was something in this reply and the tone in 
which it was uttered that made the baron's heart mis- 15 
give him ; but he rallied his forces and repeated his 
hospitable entreaties. 

The stranger shook his head silently but positively at 
every offer ; and waving his farewell to the company, stalked 
slowly out of the hall. The maiden aunts were abso- 20 
lutely petrified — the bride hung her head and a tear stole 
to her eye. 

The baron followed the stranger to the great court of 
the castle, where the black charger stood pawing the 
earth and snorting with impatience. When they had 25 
reached the portal, whose deep archway was dimly lighted 
by a cresset, the stranger paused, and addressed the baron 
in a hollow tone of voice which the vaulted roof rendered 
still more sepulchral. 

" Now that we are alone," said he, " I will impart to 30 
5'ou the reason of my going. I have a solemn, an indis- 
pensable engagement — " 

" Why," said the baron, " cannot you send some one 
in your place? " 



134 ' The Sketch Book 

" It admits of no substitute — I must attend it in per- 
son — I must away to Wurtzburg cathedral — " 

"Ay," said the baron, plucking up spirit, *'but not 
until to-morrow — to-morrow you shall take your bride 
5 there." 

**No! no!" replied the stranger, with tenfold solem- 
nity, *' my engagement is with no bride — the worms ! the 
worms expect me! I am a dead man — I have been slain 
by robbers — my body lies at Wurtzburg — at midnight I 

10 am to be buried — the grave is waiting for me — I must 
keep my appointment ! " 

He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the draw- 
bridge, and the clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost 
in the whistling of the night blast. 

15 The baron returned to the hall in the utmost con- 
sternation and related what had passed. Two ladies 
fainted outright, others sickened at the idea of having 
banqueted with a specter. It was the opinion of some 
that this might be the wild huntsman, famous in Ger- 

20 man legend. Some talked of mountain sprites, of wood- 
demons, and of other supernatural beings with which 
the good people of Germany have been so grievously 
harassed since time immemorial. One of the poor rela- 
tions ventured to suggest that it might be some sportive 

25 evasion of the young cavalier, and that the very gloomi- 
ness of the caprice seemed to accord with so melancholy a 
personage. This, however, drew on him the indignation 
of the whole company, and especially of the baron, who 
looked upon him as little better than an infidel; so that 

30 he was fain to abjure his heresy as speedily as possible 
and come into the faith of the true believers. 

But whatever may have been the doubts entertained, 
they were completely put to an end by the arrival, next 
day, of regular missives confirming the intelligence of 



The Specter Bridegroom 135 

the young count's murder and his interment in Wurtz- 
burg cathedral. 

The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The 
baron shut himself up in his chamber. The guests, who 
had come to rejoice with him, could not think of aban- 5 
doning him in his distress. They wandered about the 
courts or collected in groups in the hall, shaking their 
heads and shrugging their shoulders at the troubles of 
so good a man; and sat longer than ever at table, and 
ate and drank more stoutly than ever, by way of keeping 10 
up their spirits. But the situation of the widowed bride 
was the most pitiable. To have lost a husband before 
she had even embraced him — and such a husband! if 
the very specter could be so gracious and noble, what 
must have been the living man! She filled the house 15 
with lamentations. 

On the night of the second day of her widowhood she 
had retired to her chamber, accompanied by one of her 
aunts, who insisted on sleeping with her. The aunt, 
who was one of the best tellers of ghost stories in all 20 
Germany, had just been recounting one of her longest, 
and had fallen asleep in the very midst of It. The cham- 
ber was remote and overlooked a small garden. The 
niece lay pensively gazing at the beams of the rising 
moon, as they trembled on the leaves of an aspen tree 25 
before the lattice. The castle clock had just tolled mid- 
night when a soft strain of music stole up from the 
garden. She rose hastily from her bed and stepped lightly 
to the window. A tall figure stood among the shadows 
of the trees. As it raised Its head a beam of moonlight 30 
fell upon the countenance. Heaven and earth! she beheld 
the Specter Bridegroom! A loud shriek at that moment 
burst upon her ear, and her aunt, who had been awakened 
by the music and had followed her silently to the window, 



136 The Sketch Book 

fell into her arms. When she looked again the specter had 
disappeared. 

Of the two females, the aunt now required the most 
soothing, for she was perfectly beside herself with ter- 
5 ror. As to the young lady, there was something, even 
in the specter of her lover, that seemed endearing. There 
was still the semblance of manly beauty; and though 
the shadow of a man is but little calculated to satisfy the 
affections of a love-sick girl, yet, where the substance is 

10 not to be had, even that is consoling. The aunt declared 
she would never sleep in that chamber again; the niece 
for once was refractory, and declared as strongly that she 
would sleep in no other in the castle ; the consequence was, 
that she had to sleep in it alone; but she drew a promise 

15 from her aunt not to relate the story of the specter, lest 

she should be denied the only melancholy pleasure left 

her on earth — that of inhabiting the chamber over which 

the guardian shade of her lover kept its nightly vigils. 

How long the good old lady would have observed 

20 this promise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk 
of the marvelous, and there is a triumph in being the 
first to tell a frightful story; it is, however, still quoted 
in the neighborhood as a memorable instance of female 
secrecy that she kept it to herself for a whole week; 

25 when she was suddenly absolved from all further restraint, 
by intelligence brought to the breakfast table one morning 
that the young lady was not to be found. Her room was 
empty — the bed had not been slept in — the window was 
open, and the bird had flown! 

30 The astonishment and concern with which the intelli- 
gence was received can only be imagined by those who 
have witnessed the agitation which the mishaps of a 
great man cause among his friends. Even the poor rela- 
tions paused for a moment from the indefatigable labors 



The Specter Bridegroom 137 

of the trencher; when the aunt, who had at first been 
struck speechless, wrung her hands and shrieked out, " The 
goblin! the goblin! she's carried away by the goblin." 

In a few words she related the fearful scene of the 
garden, and concluded that the specter must have car- 5 
ried off his bride. Two of the domestics corroborated 
the opinion, for they had heard the clattering of a horse's 
hoofs down the mountain about midnight, and had no 
doubt that it was the specter on his black charger bearing 
her away to the tomb. All present were struck with the 10 
direful probability; for events of the kind are extremely 
common in Germany, as many well-authenticated his- 
tories bear witness. 

What a lamentable situation was that of the poor baron ! 
What a heartrending dilemma for a fond father and a 15 
member of the great family of Katzenellenbogen ! His 
only daughter had either been rapt away to the grave, 
or he was to have some wood-demon for a son-in-law, and 
perchance a troop of goblin grandchildren. As usual, he 
was completely bewildered, and all the castle in an uproar. 20 
The men were ordered to take horse and scour every 
road and path and glen of the Odenwald. The baron 
himself had just drawn on his jack-boots, girded on his 
sword, and was about to mount his steed to sally forth on 
the doubtful quest, when he was brought to a pause by a 25 
new apparition. A lady was seen approaching the castle, 
mounted on a palfrey, attended by a cavalier on horse- 
back. She galloped up to the gate, sprang from her horse, 
and falling at the baron's feet embraced his knees. It 
was his lost daughter and her companion — the Specter 30 
Bridegroom! The baron was astounded. He looked at 
his daughter, then at the specter, and almost doubted 
the evidence of his senses. The latter, too, was won- 
derfully improved in his appearance since his visit to 



138 The Sketch Book 

the world of spirits. His dress was splendid, and set off 
a noble figure of manly symmetry. He was no longer 
pale and melancholy. His fine countenance was flushed 
with the glow of youth, and joy rioted in his large dark 
5 eye. 

The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for 
in truth as you must have known all the while, he was no 
goblin) announced himself as Sir Hermann Von Starken- 
faust. He related his adventure with the young count. 

10 He told how he had hastened to the castle to deliver 
the unwelcome tidings, but that the eloquence of the 
baron had interrupted him in every attempt to tell his 
tale. How the sight of the bride had completely capti- 
vated him, and that to pass a few hours near her he 

15 had tacitly suffered the mistake to continue. How he 
had been sorely perplexed in what way to make a decent 
retreat, until the baron's goblin stories had suggested his 
eccentric exit. How, fearing the feudal hostility of the 
family, he had repeated his visits by stealth — had haunted 

20 the garden beneath the young lady's window — had wooed 
— had won — had borne away in triumph — and, in a word, 
had wedded the fair. 

Under any other circumstances the baron would have 
been inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal author- 

25 ity and devoutly obstinate in all family feuds ; but he 
loved his daughter; he had lamented her as lost; he 
rejoiced to find her still alive; and though her husband 
was of a hostile house, yet, thank Heaven, he was not a 
goblin. There was something, it must be acknowledged, 

30 that did not exactly accord with his notions of strict 
veracity in the joke the knight had passed upon him of 
his being a dead man; but several old friends present 
who had served in the wars assured him that every 
stratagem was excusable in love, and that the cavalier 



The Specter Bridegroom 139 

was entitled to especial privilege, having lately served as 
a trooper. 

Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The baron 
pardoned the young couple on the spot. The revels 
at the castle were resumed. The poor relations over- 5 
whelmed this new member of the family with loving 
kindness; he was so gallant, so generous — and so rich. 
The aunts, it is true, were somewhat scandalized that 
their system of strict seclusion and passive obedience 
should be so badly exemplified, but attributed it all to 10 
their negligence in not having the windows grated. One 
of them was particularly mortified at having her marvelous 
story marred, and that the only specter she had ever seen 
should turn out a counterfeit; but the niece seemed per- 
fectly happy at having found him substantial flesh and 1.=; 
blood — and so the story ends. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 

When I behold, with deep astonishment, 
To famous Westminster how there resorte 
Living in brasse or stoney monument. 
The princes and the worthies of all sorte; 
Doe not I see reformde nobilitie, 
Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation, 
And looke upon offenselesse majesty. 
Naked of pomp or earthly domination? 
And how a play-game of a painted stone 
Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, 
Whome all the world which late they stood upon 
Could not content or quench their appetites. 
Life is a frost of cold felicitie, 
And death the thaw of all our vanitie. 

Christolero's Epigrams, by T. B., 1598. 

On one of those sober and rather melancholy days in 
the latter part of autumn, when the shadows of morning 
and evening almost mingle together and throw a gloom 
over the decline of the year, I passed several hours in 

5 rambling about Westminster Abbey. There w^as some- 
thing congenial to the season in the mournful magnifi- 
cence of the old pile ; and as I passed its threshold it 
seemed like stepping back Into the regions of antiq- 
uity and losing myself among the shades of former 

10 ages. 

I entered from the inner court of Westminster School, 
through a long, low, vaulted passage that had an almost 
subterranean look, being dimly lighted In one part by 
circular perforations In the massive walls. Through this 

140 



Westminster Abbey 141 

dark avenue I had a distant view of the cloisters, with 
the figure of an old verger in his black gown moving 
along their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a specter 
from one of the neighboring tombs. The approach to the 
abbey through these gloomy monastic remains prepares 5 
the mind for its solemn contemplation. The cloisters 
still retain something of the quiet and seclusion of former 
days. The gray walls are discolored by damps and 
crumbling with age; a coat of hoary moss has gathered 
over the inscriptions of the mural monuments and obscured 10 
the death's heads and other funereal emblems. The sharp 
touches of the chisel are gone from the rich tracery of 
the arches; the roses which adorned the keystones have 
lost their leafy beauty ; everything bears marks of the 
gradual dilapidations of time, which yet has something 15 
touching and pleasing in its very decay. 

The sun was pouring dow^n a yellow autumnal ray into 
the square of the cloisters; beaming upon a scanty plot of 
grass in the center, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted 
passage with a kind of dusky splendor. From between the 20 
arcades the eye glanced up to a bit of blue sky or a passing 
cloud and beheld the sun-gilt pinnacles of the abbey tower- 
ing into the azure heaven. 

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this 
mingled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes en- 25 
deavoring to decipher the inscriptions on the tombstones 
which formed the pavement beneath my feet, my eye was 
attracted to three figures, rudely carved in relief, but 
nearly worn away by the footsteps of many generations. 
They wTre the effigies of three of the early abbots; the 30 
epitaphs were entirely effaced ; the names alone remained, 
having no doubt been renewed in later times: Vitalis, Ab- 
bas. 1082, and Gislebertus Crispinus. Abbas. 11 14, and 
Laurentius. Abbas. 1176. I remained some little while 



142 The Sketch Book 

musing over these casual relics of antiquity thus left like 
wrecks upon this distant shore of time, telling no tale but 
that such beings had been, and had perished ; teaching no 
moral but the futility of that pride which hopes still to 
5 exact homage in its ashes and to live in an inscription. A 
little longer and even these faint records will be obliter- 
ated, and the monument will cease to be a memorial. 
Whilst I was j^et looking down upon these gravestones I 
was roused by the sound of the abbey clock reverberat- 

10 ing from buttress to buttress and echoing among the clois- 
ters. It is almost startling to hear this warning of de- 
parted time sounding among the tombs and telling the 
lapse of the hour, which, like a billow, has rolled us on- 
ward towards the grave. I pursued my walk to an arched 

15 door opening to the interior of the abbey. On entering 
here the magnitude of the building breaks fully upon the 
mind, contrasted with the vaults of the cloisters. The 
eyes gaze with wonder at clustered columns of gigantic 
dimensions, with arches springing from them to such an 

20 amazing height, and man wandering about their bases, 
shrunk into insignificance in comparison with his own 
handiwork. The spaciousness and gloom of this vast 
edifice produce a profound and mysterious awe. We step 
cautiously and softly about, as if fearful of disturbing the 

25 hallowed silence of the tomb ; while every footfall whis- 
pers along the walls and chatters among the sepulchers, 
making us more sensible of the quiet we have inter- 
rupted. 

It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down 

30 upon the soul and hushes the beholder into noiseless rever- 
ence. We feel that we are surrounded by the congre- 
gated bones of the great men of past times who have 
filled history with their deeds and the earth with their 
renown. 



Westminster Abbey 143 

And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of 
human ambition to see how they are crowded together 
and jostled in the dust; what parsimony is observed in 
doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a little por- 
tion of earth, to those whom, when alive, kingdoms could 5 
not satisfy; and how many shapes and forms and arti- 
fices are devised to catch the casual notice of the pas- 
senger, and save from forgetfulness for a few^ short years a 
name which once aspired to occupy ages of the world's 
thought and admiration. 10 

I passed some time in Poets' Corner, which occupies 
an end of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. 
The monuments are generally simple, for the lives of 
literary men afford no striking themes for the sculptor. 
Shakespeare and Addison have statues erected to their 15 
memories, but the greater part have busts, medallions, 
and sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwithstanding the 
simplicity of these memorials, I have always observed 
that the visitors to the abbey remained longest about them. 
A kinder and fonder feeling takes place of that cold 20 
curiosity or vague admiration with which they gaze on the 
splendid monuments of the great and the heroic. They 
linger about these as about the tombs of friends and com- 
panions; for indeed there is something of companionship 
between the author and the reader. Other men are known 25 
to posterity only through the medium of history, which is 
continually growing faint and obscure ; but the intercourse 
between the author and his fellowmen is ever new, active, 
and immediate. He has lived for them more than for 
himself; he has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments and shut 30 
himself up from the delights of social life, that he might 
the more intimately commune with distant minds and dis- 
tant ages. Well may the world cherish his renown ; for it 
has been purchased, not by deeds of violence and blood, 



144 The Sketch Book 

but by the diligent dispensation of pleasure. Well may 
posterity be grateful to his memory; for he has left it an 
inheritance, not of empty names and sounding actions, 
but whole treasures of wisdom, bright gems of thought, 
5 and golden veins of language. 

From Poets' Corner I continued my stroll towards 
that part of the abbey which contains the sepulchers of 
the kings. I wandered among what once were chapels, 
but which are now occupied by the tombs ^nd monu- 

10 ments of the great. At every turn I met with some illus- 
trious name, or the cognizance of some powerful house 
renowned in history. As the eye darts into these dusky 
chambers of death it catches glimpses of quaint effigies: 
some kneeling in niches, as if in devotion ; others stretched 

15 upon the tombs, with hands piously pressed together; 
warriors in armor, as if reposing after battle; prelates 
with crosiers and miters ; and nobles in robes and coronets, 
lying as it were in state. In glancing over this scene, so 
strangely populous, yet where every form is so still and 

20 silent, it seems almost as if we were treading a mansion 
of that fabled city where every being had been suddenly 
transmuted into stone. 

I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the 
effigy of a knight in complete armor. A large buckler 

25 was on one arm ; the hands were pressed together in 
supplication upon the breast; the face was almost covered 
by the morion ; the legs were crossed, in token of the 
warrior's having been engaged in the holy war. It was the 
tomb of a crusader; of one of those military enthusiasts 

30 who so strangely mingled religion and romance, and whose 
exploits form the connecting link between fact and fiction, 
between the history and the fairy tale. There is something 
extremely picturesque in the tombs of these adventurers, 
decorated as they are with rude armorial bearings and 



Westminster Abbey 145 

Gothic sculpture. They comport with the antiquated 
chapels in \\hich they are generally found; and in consider- 
ing them the imagination is apt to kindle with the legendary 
associations, the romantic fiction, the chivalrous pomp and 
pageantry which poetry has spread over the wars for the 5 
sepulcher of Christ. They are the relics of time utterly 
gone by, of beings passed from recollection, of customs and 
manners with which ours have no affinity. They are like 
objects from some strange and distant land of which we 
have no certain knowledge, and about which all our con- 10 
ceptions are vague and visionary. There is something 
extremely solemn and awful in those effigies on Gothic 
tombs, extended as if in the sleep of death, or in the sup- 
plication of the dying hour. They have an effect infinitely 
more impressive on my feelings than the fanciful attitudes, 15 
the overwrought conceits, and allegorical groups which 
abound on modern monuments. I have been struck, also, 
with the superiority of many of the old sepulchral in- 
scriptions. There was a noble way, in former times, of 
saying things simply, and yet saying them proudly; and 20 
I do not know an epitaph that breathes a loftier conscious- 
ness of family worth and honorable lineage than one which 
affirms of a noble house that " all the brothers were brave 
and all the sisters virtuous." 

In the opposite transept to Poets' Corner stands a monu- 25 
ment which is among the most renowned achievements 
of modern art, but which to me appears horrible rather 
than sublime. It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by 
Roubiliac. The bottom of the monument is represented 
as throwing open its marble doors, and a sheeted skeleton 30 
is starting forth. The shroud is falling from his fleshless 
frame as he launches his dart at his victim. She is sinking 
into her affrighted husband's arms, who strives with vain 
and frantic effort to avert the blow. The whole is exe- 



146 The Sketch Book 

cuted with terrible truth and spirit; we almost fancy we 
hear the gibbering yell of triumph bursting from the dis- 
tended jaws of the specter. But why should we thus seek 
to clothe death with unnecessary terrors, and to spread 
5 horrors round the tomb of those we love ? The grave 
should be surrounded by everything that might inspire ten- 
derness and veneration for the dead, or that might win the 
living to virtue. It is the place, not of disgust and dis- 
may, but of sorrow and meditation. 

10 While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent 
aisles, studying the records of the dead, the sound of 
busy existence from without occasionally reaches the ear, 
the rumbling of the passing equipage, the murmur of the 
multitude, or perhaps the light laugh of pleasure. The 

15 contrast is striking with the deathlike repose around ; and 
it has a strange effect upon the feelings thus to hear the 
surges of active life hurrying along and beating against 
the very walls of the sepulcher. 

I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb 

20 and from chapel to chapel. The day was gradually 
wearing away; the distant tread of loiterers about the 
abbey grew less and less frequent; the sweet-tongued 
bell was summoning to evening prayers; and I saw at a 
distance the choristers in their white surplices crossing 

25 the aisle and entering the choir. I stood before the en- 
trance to Henry the Seventh's Chapel. A flight of steps 
lead up to it, through a deep and gloomy but magnificent 
arch. Great gates of brass, richly and delicately wrought, 
turn heavily upon their hinges, as if proudly reluctant to 

30 admit the feet of common mortals into this most gorgeous 
of sepulchers. 

On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of 
architecture and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. 
The very walls are wrought into universal ornament, in- 



Westminster Abbey 147 

crusted with tracery, and scooped into niches crowded with 
the statues of saints and martyrs. Stone seems by the 
cunning labor of the chisel to have been robbed of its 
weight and density, suspended aloft as if by magic, and 
the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful minuteness 5 
and airy security of a cobweb. 

Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the 
Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak, though with 
the grotesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On 
the pinnacles of the stalls are affixed the helmets and crests 10 
of the knights, with their scarfs and swords; and above 
them are suspended their banners, emblazoned with 
armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendor of gold 
and purple and crimson with the cold gray fretwork of the 
roof. In the midst of this grand mausoleum stands the 15 
sepulcher of its founder, — his effigy, with that of his queen, 
extended on a sumptuous tomb, and the whole surrounded 
by a superbly wrought brazen railing. 

There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence, this 
strange mixture of tombs and trophies, these emblems 20 
of living and aspiring ambition close beside mementos 
which show the dust and oblivion in which all must sooner 
or later terminate. Nothing impresses the mind with a 
deeper feeling of loneliness than to tread the silent and 
deserted scene of former throng and pageant. On looking 25 
round on the vacant stalls of the knights and their esquires, 
and on the rows of dusty but gorgeous banners that were 
once borne before them, my imagination conjured up the 
scene when this hall was bright with the valor and beauty 
of the land; glittering with the splendor of jeweled rank 30 
and military array; alive with the tread of many feet 
and the hum of an admiring multitude. All had passed 
away ; the silence of death had settled again upon the place, 
interrupted only by the casual chirping of birds which had 



148 Tlie Sketch Book 

found their way into the chapel and built their nests among 
Its friezes and pendants — sure signs of solitariness and 
desertion. 

When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they 
5 were those of men scattered far and wide about the w^orld ; 
some tossing upon distant seas, some under arms in dis- 
tant lands, some mingling in the busy intrigues of courts 
and cabinets, all seeking to deserve one more distinction in 
this mansion of shadow^y honors, — the melancholy reward 

10 of a monument. 

Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present 
a touching instance of the equality of the grave, which 
brings down the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, 
and mingles the dust of the bitterest enemies together. 

15 In one is the sepulcher of the haughty Elizabeth; in the 
other is that of her victim, the lovely and unfortunate 
Mary. Not an hour in the day but some ejaculation of 
pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled with 
indignation at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth's 

20 sepulcher continually echo with the sighs of sympathy 
heaved at the grave of her rival. 

A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary 
lies buried. The light struggles dimly through windows 
darkened by dust. The greater part of the place is in 

25 deep shadow, and the walls are stained and tinted by time 
and weather. A marble figure of Mary is stretched upon 
the tomb, round which is an iron railing, much corroded, 
bearing her national emblem — the thistle. I was weary 
with wandering, and sat down to rest myself by the monu- 

3oment, revolving in my mind the checkered and disastrous 
story of poor Mary. 

The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. 
I could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the 
priest repeating the evening service, and the faint responses 



Westminster Abbey 149 

of the choir; these paused for a time, and all was hushed. 
The stillness, the desertion and obscurity that were gradu- 
ally prevailing around, gave a deeper and more solemn 
interest to the place: 

For in the silent grave no conversation, 5 

No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 
No careful father's counsel — nothing's heard, 
For nothing is, but all oblivion, 
Dust, and an endless darkness. 

Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ hurst lo 
upon the ear, falling with doubled and redoubled inten- 
sity, and rolling, as It were, huge billows of sound. How 
well do their volume and grandeur accord with this 
mighty building! With what pomp do they swell through 
Its vast vaults and breathe their awful harmony through 15 
these caves of death, and make the silent sepulcher vocal ! 
— And now they rise In triumph and acclamation, heaving 
higher and higher their accordant notes, and piling sound 
on sound. — And now they pause, and the soft voices of the 
choir break out Into sweet gushes of melody ; they soar 20 
aloft and warble along the roof, and seem to play about 
these lofty vaults like the pure airs of heaven. Again 
the pealing organ heaves its thrilling thunders, compressing 
air Into music, and rolling It forth upon the soul. What 
long-drawn cadences! What solemn sweeping concords! 25 
It grows more and more dense and powerful — It fills the 
vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls — the ear Is stunned 
— the senses are overwhelmed. And now It Is winding 
up In full jubilee — It Is rising from the earth to heaven — 
the very soul seems rapt away and floated upwards on 30 
this swelling tide of harmony! 

I sat for some time lost In that kind of reverie which a 
strain of music Is apt sometimes to inspire; the shadows 



150 The Sketch Book 

of evening were gradually thickening round me, the 
monuments began to cast deeper and deeper gloom, and 
the distant clock again gave token of the slowly waning 
day. 
5 I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I de- 
scended the flight of steps which lead into the body of 
the building, my eye was caught by the shrine of Edward 
the Confessor, and I ascended the small staircase that 
conducts to it, to take from thence a general survey of 

10 this wilderness of tombs. The shrine is elevated upon a 
kind of platform, and close around it are the sepulchers of 
various kings and queens. From this eminence the eye 
looks down between pillars and funeral trophies to the 
chapels and chambers below, crowded with tombs, where 

15 warriors, prelates, courtiers, and statesmen lie mouldering 
in their " beds of darkness." Close by me stood the great 
chair of coronation, rudely carved of oak in the barbarous 
taste of a remote and Gothic age. The scene seemed al-- 
most as if contrived with theatrical artifice to produce an 

20 effect upon the beholder. Here was a type of the begin- 
ning and the end of human pomp and power ; here it was 
literally but a step from the throne to the sepulcher. 
Would not one think that these incongruous mementos had 
been gathered together as a lesson to living greatness? — 

25 to show it, even in the moment of its proudest exaltation, 
the neglect and dishonor to which it must soon arrive ; how 
soon that crown which encircles its brow must pass away, 
and it must lie down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, 
and be trampled upon by the feet of the meanest of the 

30 multitude. For, strange to tell, even the grave is here no 
longer a sanctuary. There is a shocking levity in some 
natures which leads them to sport with awful and hal- 
lowed things; and there are base minds which delight 
to revenge on the illustrious dead the abject homage and 



Westminster Abbey 151 

groveling servility which they pay to the living. The 
coffin of Edward the Confessor has been broken open, and 
his remains despoiled of their funereal ornaments; the 
scepter has been stolen from the hand of the imperious 
Elizabeth, and the effigy of Henry the Fifth lies head- 5 
less. Not a royal monument but bears some proof how 
false and fugitive is the homage of mankind. Some 
are plundered, some mutilated, some covered with rib- 
aldry and insult — all more or less outraged and dis- 
honored ! 10 

The last beams of day were now faintly streaming 
through the painted windows in the high vaults above 
me; the lower parts of the abbey were already wrapped 
in the obscurity of twilight. The chapels and aisles grew 
darker and darker. The effigies of the kings faded into 15 
shadow^s, the marble figures of the monuments assumed 
strange shapes in the uncertain light, the evening breeze 
crept through the aisles like the cold breath of the grave, 
and even the distant footfall of a verger traversing the 
Poets' Corner had something strange and dreary in its 20 
sound. I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and as I 
passed out at the portal of the cloisters, the door closing 
with a jarring noise behind me filled the whole building 
with echoes. 

I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of 25 
the objects I had been contemplating, but found they 
were already fallen into indistinctness and confusion. 
Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all become confounded 
in my recollection, though I had scarcely taken my foot 
from off the threshold. What, thought I, is this vast 30 
assemblage of sepulchers but a treasury of humiliation ; 
a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of 
renown and the certainty of oblivion ! It is indeed the 
empire of death; his great shadowy palace where he 



152 The Sketch Book 

sits in state mocking at the relics of human glory, and 
spreading dust and forgetfulness on the monuments of 
princes. How idle a boast, after all, is the immortality 
of a name! Time is ever silently turning over his pages; 
5 we are too much engrossed by the story of the present to 
think of the characters and anecdotes that gave interest 
to the past; and each age is a volume thrown aside to 
be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the 
hero of yesterday out of our recollection; and will in 

10 turn be supplanted by his successor of to-morrow. *' Our 
fathers," says Sir Thomas Browne, " find their graves in 
our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be 
buried in our survivors." History fades into fable, fact 
becomes clouded with doubt and controversy, the inscrip- 

15 tion moulders from the tablet, the statue falls from the 
pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids — what are they 
but heaps of sand? and their epitaphs, but characters 
written in the dust? What is the security of a tomb, 
or the perpetuity of an embalmment? The remains of 

20 Alexander the Great have been scattered to the wind, and 
his empty sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity of a 
museum. ''The Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses or 
time hath spared, avarice now consumeth; Mizraim cures 
wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams." ^ 

25 What then is to insure this pile which now towers 
above me from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums? 
The time must come when its gilded vaults which now 
spring so loftily shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet; 
when instead of the sound of melody and praise, the wind 

30 shall whistle through the broken arches and the owl hoot 

from the shattered tower — when the garish sunbeam shall 

break into these gloomy mansions of death, and the ivy 

twine round the fallen column; and the foxglove hang 

^ Sir T. Browne. 



Westminster Abbey 153 

its blossoms about the nameless urn, as if in mockery of 
the dead. Thus man passes awaj'; his name perishes from 
record and recollection ; his history is as a tale that is told, 
and his very monument becomes a ruin/ 

^ For notes on Westminster Abbey, see Appendix. 



CHRISTMAS 

But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but the 
hair of his good, gray old head and beard left? Well, I will 
have that, seeing I cannot have more of him. 

Hue and Cry after Christmas. 

A man might then behold 

At Christmas, in each hall 
Good fires to curb the cold, 

And meat for great and small. 
The neighbors were friendly bidden, 

And all had welcome true. 
The poor from the gates were not chidden 

When this old cap was new. 

Old Song. 

Nothing in England exercises a more delightful spell 
over my imagination than the lingerings of the holiday 
customs and rural games of former times. They recall 
the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morning 
5 of life, when as yet I only knew the world through books, 
and believed it to be all that poets had painted it; and 
they bring with them the flavor of those honest days of 
yore, in which, perhaps with equal fallacy, I am apt to 
think the world was more home-bred, social, and joyous 
10 than at present. I regret to say that they are daily grow- 
ing more and more faint, being gradually worn away by 
time, but still more obliterated by modern fashion. They 
resemble those picturesque morsels of Gothic architecture 
which we see crumbling in various parts of the country, 

154 



Christmas 155 

partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, and partly 
lost In the additions and alterations of later days. 
Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fondness about the 
rural game and holiday revel from which it has derived 
so many of Its themes — as the Ivy winds Its rich foliage 5 
about the Gothic arch and mouldering tower, gratefully 
repaying their support by clasping together their tottering 
remains, and, as it were, embalming them in verdure. 

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas 
awakens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. 10 
There Is a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends 
with our conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of 
hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The services of the 
Church about this season are extremely tender and inspir- 
ing. They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of 15 
our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its 
announcement. They gradually increase in fervor and 
pathos during the season of Advent, until they break 
forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace 
and good-will to men. I do not know a grander efifect 20 
of music on the moral feelings than to hear the full choir 
and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem 
in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with 
triumphant harmony. 

It Is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days 25 
of yore, that this festival which commemorates the an- 
nouncement of the religion of peace and love has been made 
the season for gathering together of family connections, and 
drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts, which 
the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are con- 30 
tinually operating to cast loose; of calling back the chil- 
dren of a family who have launched forth in life and wan- 
dered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the 
paternal hearth, that rallying place of the affections, there 



156 The Sketch Book 

to grow young and loving again among the endearing 
mementos of childhood. 

There is something in the very season of the year that 
gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other 
5 times we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the 
mere beauties of nature. Our feelings sally forth and 
dissipate themselves over the sunny landscape, and we " live 
abroad and everywhere." The song of the bird, the 
murmur of the stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, 

10 the soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of 
autumn, earth with its mantle of refreshing green, and 
heaven with its deep delicious blue and its cloudy mag- 
nificence, — all fill us with mute but exquisite delight, and 
we revel in the luxury of mere sensation. But in the 

15 depth of winter, when nature lies despoiled of every charm 
and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for 
our gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and 
desolation of the landscape, the short gloomy days and 
darksome nights, while they circumscribe our wanderings, 

20 shut in our feelings also from rambling abroad, and make 
us more keenly disposed for the pleasure of the social 
circle. Our thoughts are more concentrated, our friendly 
sympathies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the 
charm of each other's society, and are brought more 

25 closely together by dependence on each other for enjoy- 
ment. Heart calleth unto heart ; and we draw our pleas- 
ures from the deep wells of loving-kindness which lie in 
the quiet recesses of our bosoms, and which, when resorted 
to, furnish forth the pure element of domestic felicity. 

30 The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on 
entering the room filled with the glow and warmth of 
the evening fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial 
summer and sunshine through the room, and lights up each 
countenance in a kindlier welcome. Where does the hon- 



Christmas 157 

est face of hospitality expand into a broader and more 
cordial smile — where is the shy glance of love more sweetly 
eloquent — than by the winter fireside? and as the hol- 
low blast of wintry wind rushes through the hall, claps 
the distant door, whistles about the casement, and rumbles 5 
down the chimney, what can be more grateful than that 
feeling of sober and sheltered security with which we look 
round upon the comfortable chamber and the scene of 
domestic hilarity? 

The English, from the great prevalence of rural habit 10 
throughout every class of society, have always been 
fond of those festivals and holidays which agreeably 
interrupt the stillness of country life; and they were in 
former days particularly observant of the religious and 
social rites of Christmas. It is inspiring to read even 15 
the dry details which some antiquaries have given of the 
quaint humors, the burlesque pageants, the complete aban- 
donment to mirth and good-fellowship with which this 
festival was celebrated. It seemed to throw open every 
door and unlock every heart. It brought the peasant and 20 
the peer together, and blended all ranks in one warm, 
generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls of 
castles and manor houses resounded with the harp and the 
Christmas carol, and their ample boards groaned under 
the weight of hospitality. Even the poorest cottage wel- 25 
comed the festive season with green decorations of bay and 
holly — the cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lat- 
tice, inviting the passengers to raise the latch and join 
the gossip knot huddled round the hearth, beguiling the 
long evening with legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas 30 
tales. 

One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement 
is the havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday 
customs. It has completely taken off the sharp touch- 



158 The Sketch Book 

ings and spirited reliefs of these embellishments of life, 
and has worn down society into a more smooth and pol- 
ished, but certainly a less characteristic surface. Many 
of the games and ceremonials of Christmas have entirely 
5 disappeared, and like the sherris sack of old Falstaff are 
become matters of speculation and dispute among com- 
mentators. They flourished in times full of spirit and 
lustihood, when men enjoyed life roughly, but heartily 
and vigorously; times wild and picturesque, which have 

10 furnished poetry with its richest materials, and the drama 
with its most attractive variety of characters and manners. 
The world has become more worldly. There is more of 
dissipation and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded 
into a broader, but a shallower stream, and has forsaken 

15 many of those deep and quiet channels where it flowed 
sweetly through the calm bosom of domestic life. Society 
has acquired a more enlightened and elegant tone; but it 
has lost many of its strong local peculiarities, its home-bred 
feelings, its honest fireside delights. The traditionary cus- 

20 toms of golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities 
and lordly wassailings, have passed away with the baronial 
castles and stately manor houses in which they were cele- 
brated. They comported w ith the shadowy hall, the 
great oaken gallery, and the tapestried parlor, but are 

25 unfitted to the light showy saloons and gay drawing-rooms 
of the modern villa. 

Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, 
Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in Eng- 
land. It is gratifying to see that home feeling completely 

30 aroused which holds so powerful a place in every English 
bosom. The preparations making on every side for the 
social board that is again to unite friends and kindred; 
the presents of good cheer passing and repassing, — those 
tokens of regard and quickeners of kind feelings ; the ever- 



Christmas 159 

greens distributed about houses and churches, emblems 
of peace and gladness: all these have the most pleasing 
effect in producing fond associations and kindling benevo- 
lent sympathies. Even the sound of the waits, rude as 
may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the mid-watches of 5 
a winter night with the effect of perfect harmony. As 
I have been awakened by them in that still and solemn 
hour, " when deep sleep falleth upon man," I have listened 
w^ith a hushed delight, and connecting them with the 
sacred and joyous occasion, have almost fancied them into 10 
another celestial choir announcing peace and good-will to 
mankind. 

How delightfully the imagination when WTOught upon 
by these moral influences turns everything to melody and 
beauty! The very crowing of the cock, heard sometimes 15 
in the profound repose of the country, " telling the night 
watches to his feathery dames," was thought by the com- 
mon people to announce the approach of this sacred 
festival. 

Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes 20 

Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 

This bird of dawning singeth all night long; 

And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad ; 

The nights are wholesome — then no planets strike, 

No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm, 25 

So hallow'd and so gracious is the time. 

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the 
spirits, and stir of the affections, which prevail at this 
period, what bosom can remain insensible? It is indeed 
the season of regenerated feeling — the season for kindling, 30 
not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but the 
genial flame of charity in the heart. 

The scene of early love again rises green to memory 



i6o The Sketch Book 

beyond the sterile waste of j^ears; and the Ideas of home, 
fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reani- 
mates the drooping spirit, as the Arabian breeze will 
sometimes waft the freshness of the distant fields to the 
5 weary pilgrim In the desert. 

Stranger and sojourner as I am In the land, — though 
for me no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof 
throw open Its doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship 
welcome me at the threshold, — yet I feel the Influence 

10 of the season beaming Into my soul from the happy 
looks of those around me. Surely happiness Is reflective, 
like the light of heaven; and every countenance bright 
with smiles and glowing with Innocent enjoyment Is a 
mirror transmitting to others the rays of a supreme and 

15 ever-shlning benevolence. He who can turn churlishly 
away from contemplating the felicity of his fellow-beings, 
and can sit down darkling and repining In his loneliness 
when all around Is joyful, may have his moments of 
strong excitement and selfish gratification, but he wants 

20 the genial and social sympathies which constitute the 
charm of a merry Christmas. 



THE STAGE COACH 

Omne bene 

Sine poena 
Tempus est ludendij 

Venit hora 

Absque mora 
Libros deponendi. 

Old Holiday School Song. 

In the preceding paper I have made some general ob- 
servations on the Christmas festivities of England, and 
am tempted to illustrate them by some anecdotes of a 
Christmas passed in the country; in perusing which I 
w^ould most courteously invite my reader to lay aside the 5 
austerity of w^isdom, and to put on that genuine holiday 
spirit which is tolerant of folly and anxious only for 
amusement. 

In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode 
for a long distance in one of the public coaches on 10 
the day preceding Christmas. The coach was crowded 
both inside and out with passengers who, by their talk, 
seemed principally bound to the mansions of relations 
or friends to eat the Christmas dinner. It was loaded 
also with hampers of game and baskets and boxes of 15 
delicacies; and hares hung dangling their long ears about 
the coachman's box, presents from distant friends for the 
impending feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked boys for 
my fellow-passengers inside, full of the buxom health 
and manly spirit which I have observed in the children 20 

161 



1 62 The Sketch Book 

of this country. They were returning home for the holi- 
days in high glee, and promising themselves a world of 
enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of 
the little rogues and the impracticable feats they were to 
5 perform during their six weeks' emancipation from the 
abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and pedagogue. They 
were full of anticipations of the meeting with the family 
and household, down to the very cat and dog; and of the 
joy they were to give their little sisters by the presents 

10 with which their pockets were crammed ; but the meet- 
ing to which they seemed to look forward with the great- 
est impatience was with Bantam, which I found to be a 
pony, and according to their talk possessed of more virtues 
than any steed since the days of Bucephalus. How he 

15 could trot! how he could run! and then such leaps as he 
would take — there was not a hedge in the whole country 
that he could not clear. 

They were under the particular guardianship of the 
coachman, to whom whenever an opportunity presented 

20 they addressed a host of questions, and pronounced him 
one of the best fellows in the world. Indeed, I could 
not but notice the more than ordinary air of bustle and 
importance of the coachman, who wore his hat a little on 
one side, and had a large bunch of Christmas greens stuck 

25 in the buttonhole of his coat. He is always a personage 
full of mighty care and business, but he is particularly so 
during this season, having so many commissions to execute 
in consequence of the great interchange of presents. And 
here, perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my untraveled 

30 readers to have a sketch that may serve as a general repre- 
sentation of this very numerous and important class of 
functionaries, who have a dress, a manner, a language, and 
air, peculiar to themselves, and prevalent throughout the 
fraternity; so that wherever an English stage coachman 



The Stage Coach 163 

may be seen, he cannot be mistaken for one of any other 
craft or mystery. 

He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled 
with red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feed- 
ing into every vessel of the skin; he is swelled into jolly 5 
dimensions by frequent potations of malt liquors, and 
his bulk is still further increased by a multiplicity of 
coats, in which he is buried like a cauliflower, the upper 
one reaching to his heels. He wears a broad-brimmed, 
low-crowned hat; a huge roll of colored handkerchief 10 
about his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at the 
bosom ; and has in summer time a large bouquet of flowers 
in his buttonhole — the present, most probably, of some 
enamored country lass. His waistcoat is commonly of 
some bright color, striped, and his small clothes extend 15 
far below the knees to meet a pair of jockey boots which 
reach about halfway up his legs. 

All this costume is maintained with much precision; 
he has a pride in having his clothes of excellent materials ; 
and notwithstanding the seeming grossness of his appear- 20 
ance, there is still discernible that neatness and propriety 
of person which is almost inherent in an Englishman. He 
enjoys great consequence and consideration along the road ; 
has frequent conferences with the village housewives, who 
look upon him as a man of great trust and dependence; 23 
and he seems to have a good understanding with every 
bright-eyed country lass. The moment he arrives where 
the horses are to be changed, he throws down the reins 
with something of an air and abandons the cattle to the 
care of the hostler, his duty being merely to drive from 30 
one stage to another. When off the box his hands are 
thrust into the pockets of his greatcoat, and he rolls about 
the inn yard with an air of the most absolute lordliness. 
Here he is generally surrounded by an admiring throng 



164 The Sketch Book 

of hostlers, stableboys, shoeblacks, and those nameless 
hangers-on that infest inns and taverns and run errands 
and do all kind of odd jobs for the privilege of batten- 
ing on the drippings of the kitchen and the leakage of 
5 the taproom. These all look up to him as to an oracle, 
treasure up his cant phrases, echo his opinions about 
horses and other topics of jockey lore, and above all en- 
deavor to imitate his air and carriage. Every ragamuffin 
that has a coat to his back thrusts his hands in the pockets, 

10 rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo " coachey." 
Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity 
that reigned in my own mind that I fancied I saw cheer- 
fulness in every countenance throughout the journey. A 
stage coach, however, carries animation always with it, 

15 and puts the world in motion as it whirls along. The 
horn sounded at the entrance of a village produces a 
general bustle. Some hasten forth to meet friends; some 
with bundles and bandboxes to secure places, and in the 
hurry of the moment can hardly take leave of the group 

20 that accompanies them. In the meantime the coachman 
has a world of small commissions to execute. Some- 
times he delivers a hare or pheasant ; sometimes jerks a 
small parcel or newspaper to the door of a public house ; 
and sometimes, with knowing leer and words of sly im- 

25 port, hands to some half-blushing, half-laughing house- 
maid an odd-shaped billet doux from some rustic admirer. 
As the coach rattles through the village every one runs 
to the window, and you have glances on every side of 
fresh country faces and blooming, giggling girls. At the 

30 corners are assembled juntos of village idlers and wise 
men, who take their stations there for the important 
purpose of seeing company pass ; but the sagest knot is 
generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the passing of the 
coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. The smith, 



The Stage Coach 165 

with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle 
whirls by ; the q^clops round the anvil suspend their ring- 
ing hammers and suffer the iron to grow cool ; and the 
sooty specter, in brown paper cap laboring at the bellows, 
leans on the handle for a moment and permits the asthmatic 5 
engine to heave a long-drawn sigh, while he glares through 
the murky smoke and sulphureous gleams of the smithy. 

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more 
than usual animation to the country, for it seemed to 
me as if everybody was in good looks and good spirits. 10 
Game, poultry, and other luxuries of the table were in 
brisk circulation in the villages; the grocers', butchers', 
and fruiterers' shops were thronged with customers. The 
housewives were stirring briskly about, putting their dwell- 
ings in order; and the glossy branches of holly with their 15 
bright-red berries began to appear at the windows. The 
scene brought to mind an old writer's account of Christ- 
mas preparations: '* Now capons and hens, beside turkeys, 
geese, and ducks, with beef and mutton, must all die, for 
in tw^elve days a multitude, of people will not be fed with 20 
a little. Now plums and spice, sugar and honey, square it 
among pies and broth. Now or never must music be in 
tune, for the youth must dance and sing to get them a 
heat, while the aged sit by the fire. The country maid 
leaves half her market, and must be sent again if she for- 25 
gets a pack of cards on Christmas eve. Great is the con- 
tention of holly and ivy, whether master or dame wears the 
breeches. Dice and cards benefit the butler; and if the 
cook do not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers." 

I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation by 30 
a shout from my little traveling companions. They had 
been looking out of the coach windows for the last few 
miles, recognizing every tree and cottage as they ap- 
proached home, and now there was a general burst of joy — 



1 66 The Sketch Book 

*' There's John! and there's old Carlo! and there's Ban- 
tam!" cried the happy little rogues, clapping their hands. 
At the end of the lane there was an old sober-looking 
servant in livery waiting for them ; he was accompanied 
5 by a superannuated pointer and by the redoubtable Ban- 
tam, a little old rat of a pony with a shaggy mane and 
long rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly by the roadside, 
little dreaming of the bustling times that awaited him. 
I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little 

10 fellows leaped about the steady old footman and hugged 
the pointer, who w-riggled his whole body for joy. But 
Bantam was the great object of interest; all wanted to 
mount at once, and it was with some difficulty that John 
arranged that they should ride by turns, and the eldest 

15 should ride first. 

Off they set at last; one on the pony, with the dog 
bounding and barking before him, and the others hold- 
ing John's hands; both talking at once, and overpower- 
ing him with questions about home and with school anec- 

20 dotes. I looked after them with a feeling in which I do 
not know whether pleasure or melancholy predominated ; 
for I was reminded of those days when, like them, I had 
neither known care nor sorrow, and a holiday was the 
summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few moments 

25 afterwards to w^ater the horses, and on resuming our route, 
a turn of the road brought us in sight of a neat country 
seat. I could just distinguish the forms of a lady and two 
young girls in the portico, and I saw my little comrades, 
with Bantam, Carlo and old John, trooping along the car- 

30 riage road. I leaned out of the coach window in hopes of 
witnessing the happy meeting, but a grove of trees shut it 
from my sight. 

In the evening we reached a village where I had deter- 
mined to pass the night. As we drove into the great 



The Stage Coach 167 

gateway of the inn, I saw on one side the light of a rousing 
kitchen fire beaming through a window. I entered, and 
admired for the hundredth time that picture of conveni- 
ence, neatness, and broad honest enjoyment — the kitchen 
of an English inn. It was of spacious dimensions, hung 5 
round with copper and tin vessels highly polished, and 
decorated here and there with a Christmas green. Hams, 
tongues, and flitches of bacon were suspended from the ceil- 
ing; a smokejack made its ceaseless clanking beside the 
fireplace, and a clock ticked in one corner. A well-scoured 10 
deal table extended along one side of the kitchen, with a 
cold round of beef and other hearty viands upon it, over 
which two foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting 
guard. Travelers of inferior order were preparing to 
attack this stout repast, while others sat smoking and 15 
gossiping over their ale on two high-backed oaken settles 
beside the fire. Trim housemaids were hurrying back- 
w^ards and foru^ards under the directions of a fresh, bus- 
tling landlady, but still seizing an occasional moment to 
exchange a flippant word and have a rallying laugh with 20 
the group round the fire. The scene completely realized 
Poor Robin's humble idea of the comforts of midwinter: 

Now trees their leafy hats do bare 

To reverence Winter's silver hair; 

A handsome hostess, merry host, 2$ 

A pot of ale now and a toast, 

Tobacco and a good coal fire, 

Are things this season doth require/ 

I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise 
drove up to the door. A young gentleman stept out, 30 
and by the light of the lamps I caught a glimpse of a 
countenance which I thought I knew. I moved forward 

^ Poor Robin's Almanac, 1684. 



1 68 The Sketch Book 

to get a nearer view, when his eye caught mine. I was 
not mistaken ; It was Frank Bracebrldge, a sprightly, 
good-humored young fellow with whom I had once trav- 
eled on the continent. Our meeting was extremely cordial, 
5 for the countenance of an old fellow-traveler always 
brings up the recollection of a thousand pleasant scenes, 
odd adventures, and excellent jokes. To discuss all these 
In a transient Interview at an Inn was Impossible; and 
finding that I was not pressed for time, and was merely 

10 making a tour of observation, he Insisted that I should 
give him a day or two at his father's country seat, to which 
he was going to pass the holidays, and which lay a few 
miles' distance. " It Is better than eating a solitary Christ- 
mas dinner at an Inn," said he, ** and I can assure you 

i5 of a hearty welcome In something of the old-fashioned 
style." His reasoning was cogent, and I must confess 
the preparation I had seen for universal festivity and 
social enjoyment had made me feel a little Impatient of 
my loneliness. I closed therefore at once with his invlta- 

20 tion; the chaise drove up to the door, and In a few mo- 
ments I was on my way to the family mansion of the 
Bracebrldges. 



CHRISTMAS EVE 

Saint Francis and Saint Benedight 
Blesse this house from wicked wight; 
From the night-mare and the goblin, 
That is hight good fellow Robin; 
Keep it from all evil spirits, 
Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets: 

From curfew time 

To the next prime. 

Cartwright. 

It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremeh^ cold ; 
our chaise whirled rapidly over the frozen ground ; the 
postboy smacked his whip incessantly, and a part of the 
time his horses were on a gallop. " He knows where he 
is going," said my companion, laughing, " and is eager 5 
to arrive in time for some of the merriment and good 
cheer of the servants' hall. My father, you must know, 
is a bigoted devotee of the old school, and prides himself 
upon keeping up something of old English hospitality. He 
is a tolerable specimen of what you will rarely meet with 10 
nowadays in its purity, the old English country gentle- 
man ; for our men of fortune spend so much of their 
time in town, and fashion is carried so much Into the 
country, that the strong, rich peculiarities of ancient rural 
life are almost polished away. My father, however, from 15 
early years, took honest Peacham ^ for his text-book In- 
stead of Chesterfield ; he determined in his own mind that 
there was no condition more truly honorable and enviable 
than that of a country gentleman on his paternal lands, 

^ Peacham's Complete Gentleman, 1622. 
169 



1 70 The Sketch Book 

and therefore passes the whole of his time on his estate. 
He is a strenuous advocate for the revival of the old rural 
games and holiday observances, and is deeply read in the 
writers, ancient and modern, who have treated on the 
5 subject. Indeed his favorite range of reading is among the 
authors who flourished at least two centuries since; who, 
he insists, wrote and thought more like true Englishmen 
than any of their successors. He even regrets sometimes 
that he had not been born a few centuries earlier, when 

10 England was itself and had its peculiar manners and cus- 
toms. As he lives at some distance from the main road, 
in rather a lonely part of the country, without any rival 
gentry near him, he has that most enviable of all bless- 
ings to an Englishman, an opportunity of indulging the 

15 bent of his own humor without molestation. Being rep- 
resentative of the oldest family in the neighborhood, 
and a great part of the peasantry being his tenants, he 
is much looked up to, and in general is known simply 
by the appellation of ' the Squire,' a title which has been 

20 accorded to the head of the family since time imme- 
morial. I think it best to give you these hints about 
my worthy old father, to prepare you for any eccentricities 
that might otherwise appear absurd." 

We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, 

25 and at length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in 
a heavy magnificent old style, of iron bars, fancifully 
wrought at top into flourishes and flowers. The huge 
square columns that supported the gate were surmounted 
by the family crest. Close adjoining was the porter's 

30 lodge, sheltered under dark fir trees, and almost buried in 
shrubbery. 

The postboy rang a large porter's bell, which resounded 
through the still frosty air, and was answered by the 
distant barking of dogs with which the mansion house 



Christmas Eve 171 

seemed garrisoned. An old woman immediately appeared 
at the gate. As the moonlight fell strongly upon her, I 
had a full view of a little primitive dame dressed very 
much in the antique taste, with a neat kerchief and 
stomacher, and her silver hair peeping from under a cap 5 
of snowy whiteness. She came courtesying forth with 
many expressions of simple joy at seeing her young mas- 
ter. Her husband, it seemed, was up at the house keep- 
ing Christmas eve in the servants' hall ; they could not do 
without him, as he was the best hand at a song and story 10 
in the household. 

My friend proposed that we should alight and walk 
through the park to the hall, which was at no great dis- 
tance, while the chaise should follow on. Our road 
wound through a noble avenue of trees, among the naked 15 
branches of which the moon glittered as she rolled through 
the deep vault of a cloudless sky. The lawn bej ond was 
sheeted with a slight covering of snow, which here and 
there sparkled as the moonbeams caught a frosty crystal ; 
and at a distance might be seen a thin transparent vapor 20 
stealing up from the low grounds and threatening gradu- 
ally to shroud the landscape. 

My companion looked around him with transport: 
*' How often," said he, " have I scampered up this avenue 
on returning home on school vacations! How often have 25 
I played under these trees when a boy ! I feel a degree 
of filial reverence for them, as we look up to those who 
have cherished us in childhood. My father was always 
scrupulous in exacting our holidays and having us around 
him on family festivals. He used to direct and superin- 30 
tend our games w^ith the strictness that some parents do 
the studies of their children. He was very particular that 
we should play the old English games according to their 
original form; and consulted old books for precedent and 



172 The Sketch Book 

authority for every ' merrle disport ' ; yet I assure you 
there never was pedantry so delightful. It was the policy 
of the good old gentleman to make his children feel that 
home was the happiest place in the world ; and I value this 
5 delicious home feeling as one of the choicest gifts a parent 
could bestow." 

We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop of dogs 
of all sorts and sizes, " mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 
and curs of low degree," that, disturbed by the ring of 
10 the porter's bell and the rattling of the chaise, came bound- 
ing open-mouthed across the lawn. 

" The little dogs and all, 

Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me! " 

cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice 

15 the bark was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a 
moment he was surrounded and almost overpowered by 
the caresses of the faithful animals. 

We had now come in full view of the old family man- 
sion, partly thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by 

20 the cold moonshine. It was an irregular building of 
some magnitude, and seemed to be of the architecture of 
different periods. One wing was evidently very ancient, 
with heavy stone-shafted bow windows jutting out and 
overrun with ivy, from among the foliage of which the 

25 small diamond-shaped panes of glass glittered with the 
moonbeams. The rest of the house was in the French 
taste of Charles the Second's time, having been repaired 
and altered, as my friend told me, by one of his ances- 
tors who returned with that monarch at the Restoration. 

30 The grounds about the house were laid out in the old 
formal manner of artificial flower-beds, clipped shrub- 
beries, raised terraces, and heavy stone balustrades, orna- 
mented with urns, a leaden statue or two, and a jet of 



Christmas Eve 173 

water. The old gentleman, I was told, was extremely 
careful to preserve this obsolete finery in all its original 
state. He admired this fashion in gardening; it had an 
air of magnificence, was courtly and noble, and befitting 
good old family style. The boasted imitation of nature 5 
in modern gardening had sprung up with modern repub- 
lican notions, but did not suit a monarchical govern- 
ment; it smacked of the leveling system — I could not 
help smiling at this introduction of politics into garden- 
ing, though I expressed some apprehension that I should 10 
find the old gentleman rather intolerant in his creed. — 
Frank assured me, however, that it was almost the only 
instance in which he had ever heard his father meddle 
with politics; and he believed that he had got this notion 
from a member of Parliament who once passed a few weeks 15 
with him. The squire was glad of any argument to de- 
fend his clipped yew trees and formal terraces, which had 
been occasionally attacked by modern landscape gardeners. 
As we approached the house we heard the sound of 
music, and now and then a burst of laughter from one 20 
end of the building. This, Bracebridge said, must pro- 
ceed from the servants' hall, where a great deal of revelry 
was permitted and even encouraged by the squire through- 
out the twelve days of Christmas, provided everything 
was done conformably to ancient usage. Here were kept 25 
up the old games of hoodman blind, shoe the wild mare, 
hot cockles, steal the white loaf, bob apple, and snap 
dragon ; the Yule clog and Christmas candle were regu- 
larly burnt, and the mistletoe with its white berries hung 
up, to the imminent peril of all the pretty housemaids.^ 30 

^ The mistletoe is still hung up in farmhouses and kitchens at 
Christmas; and the young men have the privilege of kissing the 
girls under it, plucking each time a berry from the bush. When 
the berries are all plucked, the privilege ceases. 



174 The Sketch Book 

So intent were the servants upon their sports that we 
had to ring repeatedly before we could make ourselves 
heard. On our arrival being announced, the squire came 
out to receive us, accompanied by his two other sons — one 
5 a young officer in the army, home on leave of absence ; 
the other an Oxonian, just from the university. The 
squire was a fine, healthy-looking old gentleman, with sil- 
ver hair curling lightly round an open florid countenance, 
in which the physiognomist, with the advantage like my- 

10 self of a previous hint or two, might discover a singular 
mixture of whim and benevolence. 

The family meeting was warm and affectionate. As the 
evening was far advanced, the squire would not permit 
us to change our traveling dresses, but ushered us at once 

15 to the company, which was assembled in a large old- 
fashioned hall. It was composed of different branches 
of a numerous family connection, where there were the 
usual proportion of old uncles and aunts, comfortable 
married dames, superannuated spinsters, blooming coun- 

20 try cousins, half-fledged striplings, and bright-ej^ed board- 
ing-school hoydens. They were variously occupied: some 
at a round game of cards, others conversing around the 
fireplace ; at one end of the hall was a group of the young 
folks, some nearly grown up, others of a more tender and 

25 budding age, fully engrossed by a merry game ; and a pro- 
fusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, and tattered dolls 
about the floor showed traces of a troop of little fairy 
beings, who, having frolicked through a happy day, had 
been carried off to slumber through a peaceful night. 

30 While the mutual greetings were going on between 
young Bracebridge and his relatives, I had time to scan 
the apartment. I have called it a hall, for so it had cer- 
tainly been in old times, and the squire had evidently 
endeavored to restore it to something of its primitive 



Christmas Eve 175 

state. Over the heavy projecting fireplace was suspended 
a picture of a warrior in armor, standing by a white 
horse, and on the opposite wall hung a helmet, buckler, and 
lance. At one end an enormous pair of antlers were in- 
serted in the w^all, the branches serving as hooks on which 5 
to suspend hats, whips, and spurs; and in the corners of 
the apartment were fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, and other 
sporting implements. The furniture was of the cum- 
brous workmanship of former days, though some articles 
of modern convenience had been added, and the oaken 10 
floor had been carpeted ; so that the whole presented an 
odd mixture of parlor and hall. 

The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelm- 
ing fireplace, to make way for a fire of wood, in the midst 
of which was an enormous log glowing and blazing, and 15 
sending forth a vast volume of light and heat: this I 
understood was the Yule clog, which the squire was par- 
ticular in having brought in and illumined on a Christmas 
eve according to ancient custom.^ 

^ The Yide clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root of a 
tree, brought into the house with great ceremony on Christmas 
eve, laid in the fireplace, and lighted with the brand of last year's 
clog. While it lasted, there was great drinking, singing, and 
telling of tales. Sometimes it was accompanied by Christmas 
candles; but in the cottages the only light was from the ruddy 
blaze of the great wood fire. The Yule clog was to burn all 
night; if it went out, it was considered a sign of ill luck. 

Herrick mentions it in one of his songs: — 

Come, bring with a noise. 

My merrie, merrie boyes, 
The Christmas log to the firing; 

While my good dame, she 

Bids ye all be free, 
And drink to your hearts desiring. 

The Yule clog is still burnt in many farmhouses and kitchens 
in England, particularly in the north, and there are several super- 



176 The Sketch Book 

It was really delightful to see the old squire seated in 
his hereditary elbow chair by the hospitable fireside of 
his ancestors, and looking around him like the sun of a 
system, beaming warmth and gladness to every heart. 

5 Even the very dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he 
lazily shifted his position and yawned, would look fondly 
up in his Piaster's face, wag his tail against the floor, 
and stretch himself again to sleep, confident of kindness 
and protection. There is an emanation from the heart 

10 in genuine hospitality which cannot be described, but 
is immediately felt, and puts the stranger at once at his 
ease. I had not been seated many minutes by the com- 
fortable hearth of the worthy old cavalier before I found 
myself as much at home as if I had been one of the 

15 family. 

Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was 
served up in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels of 
which shone with wax, and around which were several 
family portraits decorated with holly and ivj^ Besides 

20 the accustomed lights, two great wax tapers called Christ- 
mas candles, wreathed with greens, were placed on a 
highly polished beaufet among the family plate. The 
table was abundantly spread with substantial fare; but 
the squire made his supper of frumenty, a dish made of 

25 wheat cakes boiled in milk, with rich spices, being a 
standing dish in old times for Christmas eve. 

I was happy to find my old friend, minced pie, in the 
retinue of the feast; and finding him to be perfectly 
orthodox, and that I need not be ashamed of my pre- 

stitions connected with it among the peasantry. If a squinting 
person come to the house while it is burning, or a person bare- 
footed, it is considered an ill omen. The brand remaining from 
the Yule clog is carefully put away to light the next year's 
Christmas fire. 



Christmas Eve 177 

dilectlon, I greeted him with all the warmth wherewith 
we usually greet an old and very genteel acquaintance. 

The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by 
the humors of an eccentric personage whom Mr. Brace- 
bridge aiwaj^s addressed with the quaint appellation of 5 
Master Simon. He was a tight, brisk little man, with 
the air of an arrant old bachelor. His nose was shaped 
like the bill of a parrot; his face slightly pitted with the 
small-pox, with a dry perpetual bloom on it like a frost- 
bitten leaf in autumn. He had an eye of great quick- 10 
ness and vivacity, with a drollery and lurking waggery 
of expression that was irresistible. He was evidently 
the wit of the family, dealing very much in sly jokes and 
innuendoes with the ladies, and making infinite merriment 
by harping upon old themes, which, unfortunately, my 15 
ignorance of the family chronicles did not permit me to 
enjoy. It seemed to be his great delight during supper 
to keep a young girl next him in a continual agony of 
stifled laughter, in spite of her awe of the reproving looks 
of her mother, who sat opposite. Indeed, he was the 20 
idol of the younger part of the company, who laughed 
at everything he said or did, and at every turn of his 
countenance ; I could not wonder at it, for he must have 
been a miracle of accomplishments in their eyes. He could 
imitate Punch and Judy ; make an old woman of his 25 
hand, with the assistance of burnt cork and pocket 
handkerchief; and cut an orange into such a ludicrous 
caricature that the young folks were ready to die with 
laughing. 

I was let briefly into his history by Frank Bracebridge. 30 
He was an old bachelor, of a small independent income, 
which by careful management was sufficient for all his 
wants. He revolved through the family system like a 
vagrant comet in its orbit; sometimes visiting one branch, 



178 The Sketch Book 

and sometimes another quite remote; as is often the case 
with gentlemen of extensive connections and small fortunes 
in England. He had a chirping buoyant disposition, al- 
ways enjoying the present moment; and his frequent 
5 change of scene and company prevented his acquiring those 
rusty unaccommodating habits with which old bachelors 
are so uncharitably charged. He was a complete family 
chronicle, being versed in the genealogy, history, and 
intermarriages of the whole house of Bracebridge, which 

10 made him a great favorite with the old folks ; he was a 
beau of all the elder ladies and superannuated spinsters, 
among whom he was habitually considered rather a young 
fellow; and he was master of the revels among the chil- 
dren: so that there was not a more popular being in the 

15 sphere in which he moved than Mr. Simon Bracebridge. 
Of late years he had resided almost entirely with the 
squire, to whom he had become a factotum, and whom he 
particularly delighted by jumping with his humor in 
respect to old times, and by having a scrap of an old song 

20 to suit every occasion. We had presently a specimen of 
his last-mentioned talent, for no sooner was supper re- 
moved and spiced wines and other beverages peculiar to 
the season introduced than Master Simon was called on 
for a good old Christmas song. He bethought himself 

25 for a moment, and then, with a sparkle of the eye and a 
voice that was by no means bad, excepting that it ran occa- 
sionally into a falsetto like the notes of a split reed, he 
quavered forth a quaint old ditty: 

Now Christmas is come, 
30 Let us beat up the drum, 

And call all our neighbors together, 

And when they appear, 

Let us make them such cheer, 
As will keep out the wind and the weather, etc. 



Christmas Eve 179 

The supper had disposed every one to gayety, and an 
old harper was summoned from the servants' hall, where 
he had been strumming all the evening, and to all ap- 
pearance comforting himself with some of the squire's 
hom.e-brewed. He was a kind of hanger-on, I was told, 5 
of the establishment, and, though ostensibly a resident of 
the village, was oftener to be found in the squire's kitchen 
than his own home, the old gentleman being fond of the 
sound of " harp in hall." 

The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry 10 
one ; some of the older folks joined in it, and the squire 
himself figured down several couple with a partner with 
whom he affirmed he had danced at every Christmas for 
nearly half a century. Master Simon, who seemed to be 
a kind of connecting link between the old times and the 15 
new, and to be withal a little antiquated in the taste of 
his accomplishments, evidently piqued himself on his 
dancing, and was endeavoring to gain credit by the heel 
and toe, rigadoon, and other graces of the ancient school ; 
but he had unluckily assorted himself with a little romp- 20 
ing girl from boarding-school, who by her w^ild vivacity 
kept him continually on the stretch, and defeated all his 
sober attempts at elegance, — such are the ill-assorted 
matches to which antique gentlemen are unfortunately 
prone ! 25 

The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one 
of his maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played a thou- 
sand little knaveries with impunity; he was full of prac- 
tical jokes, and his delight was to tease his aunts and 
cousins; yet, like all madcap youngsters, he was a uni- 30 
versal favorite among the women. The most interesting 
couple in the dance was the young officer and a ward of 
the squire's, a beautiful blushing girl of seventeen. From 
several shy glances which I had noticed in the course 



i8o The Sketch Book 

of the evening, I suspected there was a Httle kindness 
growing up between them ; and indeed the young sol- 
dier was just the hero to captivate a romantic girl. He 
was tall, slender, and handsome, and, like most young 
5 British officers of late years, had picked up various small 
accomplishments on the continent — he could talk French 
and Italian — draw landscapes, sing very tolerably — dance 
divinely ; but above all he had been wounded at Waterloo. 
What girl of seventeen, well read in poetry and romance, 

10 could resist such a mirror of chivalry and perfection! 

The moment the dance was over, he caught up a 

guitar, and lolling against the old marble fireplace, in an 

attitude which I am half inclined to suspect was studied, 

began the little French air of the Troubadour. The 

15 squire, however, exclaimed against having anything on 
Christmas eve but good old English; upon which the 
5^oung minstrel, casting up his eye for a moment as if 
in an effort of memory, struck into another strain, and 
with a charming air of gallantry gave Herrick's Night- 

20 Piece to Julia: 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 
The shooting stars attend thee, 

And the elves also, 

Whose little eyes glow 
25 Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will o' the Wisp misHght thee; 
Nor snake nor slow-worm bite theej 

But on, on thy way, 

Not making a stay, 
30 Since ghost there is none to affright thee. 

Then let not the dark thee cumber; 
What though the moon does slumber, 

The stars of the night 

Will lend thee their light, 
35 Like tapers clear without number. 



Christmas Eve 1 8 1 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
Thus, thus to come unto me. 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silver}' feet, 
My soul I'll pour into thee. 5 

The song might or might not have been intended in 
compliment to the fair Julia, for so I found his partner 
was called ; she, however, was certainly unconscious of 
any such application, for she never looked at the singer, 
but kept her eyes cast upon the floor. Her face was lo 
suffused, it is true, with a beautiful blush, and there was 
a gentle heaving of the bosom, but all that was doubt- 
less caused by the exercise of the dance; indeed, so 
great was her indifiFerence, that she amused herself with 
plucking to pieces a choice bouquet of hothouse flowers, 15 
and by the time the song was concluded the nosegay 
lay in ruins on the floor. 

The party now broke up for the night with the kind- 
hearted old custom of shaking hands. As I passed through 
the hall on my way to my chamber, the dying embers of 20 
the Yule clog still sent forth a dusky glow, and had it 
not been the season when " no spirit dares stir abroad," 
I should have been half tempted to steal from my room at 
midnight, and peep whether the fairies might not be at 
their revels about the hearth. 25 

My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the 
ponderous furniture of which might have been fabricated 
in the days of the giants. The room was paneled with 
cornices of heavy carved work, in which flowers and gro- 
tesque faces were strangely intermingled ; and a row of 30 
black-looking portraits stared mournfully at me from the 
walls. The bed was of rich though faded damask, with 
a lofty tester, and stood in a niche opposite a bow win- 
dow. I had scarcely got into bed when a strain of music 



1 82 The Sketch Book 

seemed to break forth in the air just below the window. 
I h'stened, and found it proceeded from a band which I 
concluded to be the waits from some neighboring village. 
They went round the house, playing under the windows. 

5 I drew aside the curtains to hear them more distinctly. 
The moonbeams fell through the upper part of the case- 
ment, partially lighting up the antiquated apartment. 
The sounds as they receded became more soft and aerial, 
and seemed to accord w^ith the quiet and moonlight. I 

10 listened and listened ; they became more and more tender 
and remote, and as they gradually died away my head 
sunk upon the pillow and I fell asleep. 



CHRISTMAS DAY 

Dark and dull night, flie hence away, 
And give the honor to this day 
That sees December turn'd to May. 

****** 

Why does the chilling winter's morn« 
Smile like a field beset with corn? 
Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, 
Thus on the sudden? — Come and see 
The cause why things thus fragrant be. 

Herrick. 

When I woke the next morning, it seemed as if all 
the events of the preceding evening had been a dream, 
and nothing but the identity of the ancient chamber con- 
vinced me of their reality. While I lay musing on my 
pillow, I heard the sound of little feet pattering outside 5 
of the door and a whispering consultation. Presently a 
choir of small voices chanted forth an old Christmas 
carol, the burden of which was: 

Rejoice, our Saviour he was born 

On Christmas day in the morning. 10 

I rose softly, sllpt on my clothes, opened the door sud- 
denly, and beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy 
groups that a painter could Imagine. It consisted of 
a boy and two girls, the eldest not more than six, and 
lovely as seraphs. They were going the rounds of the 15 
house, and singing at every chamber door; but my sud- 
den appearance frightened them Into mute bashfulness. 
■ 183 



1 84 The Sketch Book 

They remained for a moment playing on their Hps with 
their fingers, and now and then steaHng a shy glance 
from under their eyebrows, until as if by one impulse 
they scampered away, and as they turned an angle of the 
5 gallery I heard them laughing in triumph at their escape. 
Everything conspired to produce kind and happy feel- 
ings in this stronghold of old-fashioned hospitality. The 
window of my chamber looked out upon what in summer 
would have been a beautiful landscape. There was a 

10 sloping lawn, a fine stream winding at the foot of it, 
and a track of park beyond with noble clumps of trees 
and herds of deer. At a distance was a neat hamlet 
with the smoke from the cottage chimneys hanging over 
it, and a church with its dark spire in strong relief against 

15 the clear, cold sky. The house was surrounded with ever- 
greens, according to the English custom, which would 
have given almost an appearance of summer, but the morn- 
ing was extremely frosty ; the light vapor of the preceding 
evening had been precipitated by the cold, and covered 

20 all the trees and every blade of grass with its fine crys- 
tallizations. The rays of a bright morning sun had a 
dazzling effect among the glittering foliage. A robin 
perched upon the top of a mountain ash that hung its 
clusters of red berries just before my window was bask- 

25 ing himself in the sunshine, and piping a few querulous 
notes; and a peacock was displaying all the glories of his 
train, and strutting with the pride and gravity of a Span- 
ish grandee on the terrace walk below. 

I had scarcely dressed myself when a servant appeared 

30 to invite me to family prayers. He showed me the way 
to a small chapel in the old wing of the house, where I 
found the principal part of the family already assembled 
in a kind of gallery furnished with cushions, hassocks, 
and large prayer-books; the servants were seated on 



Christmas Day 185 

benches below. The old gentleman read prayers from 
a desk in front of the gallery, and Master Simon acted 
as clerk and made the responses; and I must do him the 
justice to say that he acquitted himself with great gravity 
and decorum. 5 

The service was followed by a Christmas carol which 
Mr. Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem 
of his favorite author, Herrick; and it had been adapted 
to an old church melody by Master Simon. As there 
were several good voices among the household, the effect 10 
was extremely pleasing; but I was particularly gratified 
by the exaltation of heart and sudden sally of grateful 
feeling with which the worthy squire delivered one stanza, 
his eye glistening, and his voice rambling out of all the 
bounds of time and tune: 15 

'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth 

With guiltlesse mirth, 
And giv'st me Wassaile bowles to drink 

Spiced to the brink: 
Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand 20 

That soiles my land: 
And giv'st me for my bushel! sowne, 

Twice ten for one. 

I afterwards understood that early morning service 
was read on every Sunday and saints' day throughout 25 
the year by either Mr. Bracebridge or by some member of 
the family. It was once almost universally the case at 
the seats of the nobility and gentry of England, and 
it is much to be regretted that the custom is falling into 
neglect; for the dullest observer must be sensible of the 30 
order and serenity prevalent in those households where 
the occasional exercise of a beautiful form of wor- 
ship in the morning gives, as it were, the keynote to 



1 86 The Sketch Book 

every temper for the day, and attunes every spirit to 
harmony. 

Our breakfast consisted of what the squire denomi- 
nated true old English fare. He indulged in some bitter 
5 lamentations over modern breakfasts of tea and toast, 
which he censured as among the causes of modern effemi- 
nacy and weak nerves, and the decline of old English 
heartiness; and though he admitted them to his table 
to suit the palates of his guests, yet there was a brave 

10 display of cold meats, wine, and ale, on the sideboard. 

After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank 
Bracebridge and Master Simon, or Mr, Simon, as he was 
called by everybody but the squire. We were escorted 
by a number of gentlemanlike dogs that seemed loungers 

15 about the establishment, from the frisking spaniel to the 
steady old stag-hound ; the last of which was of a race 
that had been in the family time out of mind. They were 
all obedient to a dog-whistle which hung to Master 
Simon's buttonhole, and in the midst of their gambols 

20 would glance an eye occasionally upon a small switch he 
carried in his hand. 

The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the 
yellow sunshine than by pale moonlight ; and I could 
not but feel the force of the squire's idea, that the formal 

25 terraces, heavily moulded balustrades, and clipped yew 
trees carried with them an air of proud aristocracy. 
There appeared to be an unusual number of peacocks 
about the place, and I was making some remarks upon 
what I termed a flock of them that were basking under 

30 a sunny wall, when I was gently corrected in my phrase- 
ology by Master Simon, who told me that according to 
the most ancient and approved treatise on hunting, I 
must say a muster of peacocks. '' In the same way," 
added he with a slight air of pedantry, "we say a flight 



Christmas Day 187 

of doves or swallows, a bevy of quails, a herd of deer, of 
wrens, or cranes, a skulk of foxes, or a building of rooks." 
He went on to inform me that according to Sir Anthony 
Fitzherbert we ought to ascribe to this bird " both under- 
standing and glory; for being praised he will presen-tly 5 
set up his tail, chiefly against the sun, to the intent you 
may the better behold the beauty thereof. But at the 
fall jDf the leaf when his tail falleth, he will mourn and 
hide himself in corners till his tail come again as it was." 

I could not help smiling at this display of small erudi- 10 
tion on so whimsical a subject; but I found that the pea- 
cocks were birds of some consequence at the hall, for 
Frank Bracebridge informed me that they were great 
favorites with his father, who was extremely careful to 
keep up the breed; partly because they belonged to chiv- 15 
airy, and were in great request at the stately banquets 
of the olden time; and partly because they had a pomp 
and magnificence about them highly becoming an old 
family mansion. Nothing, he was accustomed to say, 
had an air of greater state and dignity than a peacock 20 
perched upon an antique stone balustrade. 

Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appoint- 
ment at the parish church with the village choristers, who 
were to perform some music of his selection. There was 
something extremely agreeable in the cheerful flow of 25 
animal spirits of the little man ; and I confess I had 
been somewhat surprised at his apt quotations from au- 
thors who certainly were not in the range of everyday 
reading. I mentioned this last circumstance to Frank 
Bracebridge, who told me with a smile that Master 30 
Simon's whole stock of erudition was confined to some 
half a dozen old authors w^hich the squire had put into 
his hands, and which he read over and over whenever 
he had a studious fit, as he sometimes had on a rainy 



1 88 The Sketch Book 

day or a long winter evening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's 
Book of Husbandry, Markham's Country Contentments, 
the Tretyse of Hunting, by Sir Thomas Cockayne, 
Knight, Izaak Walton's Angler, and two or three more 
5 such ancient worthies of the pen, were his standard au- 
thorities; and like all men who know but a few books, 
he looked up to them with a kind of idolatry, and 
quoted them on all occasions. As to his songs, they were 
chiefly picked out of old books in the squire's library, 

10 and adapted to tunes that were popular among the choice 
spirits of the last century. His practical application of 
scraps of literature, however, had caused him to be 
looked upon as a prodigy of book knowledge by all the 
grooms, huntsmen, and small sportsmen of the neigh- 

15 borhood. 

While we were talking we heard the distant tolling of 
the village bell, and I was told that the squire was a 
little particular in having his household at church on a 
Christmas morning, considering it a day of pouring out 

20 of thanks and rejoicing; for, as old Tusser observed: 

At Christmas be merry, and thankfid ivithal, 

And feast thy poor neighbors, the great with the small. 

" If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank 
Bracebridge, " I can promise you a specimen of my cousin 

25 Simon's musical achievements. As the church is desti- 
tute of an organ, he has formed a band from the village 
amateurs and established a musical club for their improve- 
ment. He has also sorted a choir, as he sorted my 
father's pack of hounds, according to the directions of 

30 Gervase Markham, in his Country Contentments. For 
the bass he has sought out all the ' deep, solemn mouths,' 
and for the tenor the ' loud-ringing mouths,' among the 



Christmas Day 189 

country bumpkins; and for 'sweet mouths,' he has culled 
with curious taste among the prettiest lasses in the neigh- 
borhood ; though these last, he affirms, are the most dif- 
ficult to keep in tune ; your pretty female singer being 
exceedingly wayward and capricious, and very liable to 5 
accident." 

As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine 
and clear, the most of the family walked to the church, 
which was a very old building of gray stone, and stood 
near a village, about half a mile from the park gate. Ad- 10 
joining it was a low snug parsonage, which seemed coeval 
with the church. The front of it was perfectly matted 
with a yew tree that had been trained against its walls, 
through the dense foliage of which apertures had been 
formed to admit light into the small antique lattices. 15 
As we passed this sheltered nest, the parson issued forth 
and preceded us. 

I had expected to see a sleek, well-conditioned pastor, 
such as is often found in a snug living in the vicinity of 
a rich patron's table, but I was disappointed. The par- 20 
son was a little, meager, black-looking man, with a griz- 
zled wig that was too wide and stood oH from each ear ; 
so that his head seemed to have shrunk away within it, 
like a dried filbert in its shell. He wore a rusty coat, 
with great skirts, and pockets that would have held the 25 
church Bible and prayer-book; and his small legs seemed 
still smaller from being planted in large shoes, decorated 
with enormous buckles. 

I was informed by Frank Bracebridge that the parson 
had been a chum of his father's at Oxford, and had 30 
received this living shortly after the latter had come to 
his estate. He was a complete black-letter hunter, and 
would scarcely read a work printed in the Roman char- 
acter. The editions of Caxton and Wynkyn de Worde 



190 The Sketch Book 

were his delight; and he was Indefatigable In his re- 
searches after such old English writers as have fallen 
into oblivion from their worthlessness. In deference 
perhaps to the notions of Mr. Bracebridge, he had made 
5 diligent investigations into the festive rites and holiday 
customs of former times ; and had been as zealous In 
the inquiry as if he had been a boon companion ; but it 
was merely with that plodding spirit with which men of 
adust temperament follow up any track of study, merely 

ID because it is denominated learning; indifferent to Its In- 
trinsic nature, whether it be the Illustration of the wis- 
dom, or of the ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. He 
had pored over these old volumes so intensely that they 
seemed to have been reflected in his countenance; which, 

15 if the face be indeed an index of the mind, might be com- 
pared to a title-page of black-letter. 

On reaching the church porch we found the parson 
rebuking the gray-headed sexton for having used mistle- 
toe among the greens with which the church was deco- 

20 rated. It was, he observed, an unholy plant, profaned by 
having been used by the Druids In their mystic cere- 
monies; and though it might be Innocently employed In 
the festive ornamenting of halls and kitchens, yet it had 
been deemed by the Fathers of the Church as unhallowed, 

25 and totally unfit for sacred purposes. So tenacious was 
he on this point that the poor sexton was obliged to 
strip down a great part of the humble trophies of his 
taste before the parson would consent to enter upon the 
service of the day. 

30 The interior of the church was venerable but simple; 
on the walls Vv^ere several mural monuments of the Brace- 
bridges, and just beside the altar was a tomb of ancient 
workmanship on which lay the effigy of a warrior In 
armor, with his legs crossed, a sign of his having been 



Christmas Day 191 

a crusader. I was told it was one of the family who 
had signalized himself in the Holy Land, and the samie 
whose picture hung over the fireplace in the hall. 

During service Master Simon stood up in the pew and 
repeated the responses very audibly, evincing that kind 5 
of ceremonious devotion punctually observed by a gentle- 
man of the old school and a man of old family connec- 
tions. I observed too that he turned over the leaves of 
a folio prayer-book with something of a flourish ; possibly 
to show off an enormous seal ring which enriched one of 10 
his fingers, and which had the look of a family relic. 
But he was evidently most solicitous about the mu- 
sical part of the service, keeping his eye fixed intently 
on the choir, and beating time with much gesticulation 
and emphasis. 15 

The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a 
most whimsical grouping of heads piled one above the 
other, among which I particularly noticed that of the 
village tailor, a pale fellow with a retreating forehead 
and chin, who played on the clarionet, and seemed to 20 
have blown his face to a point ; and there was another, 
a short pursy man, stooping and laboring at a bass-viol, 
so as to show nothing but the top of a round bald head, 
like the egg of an ostrich. There were two or three 
pretty faces among the female singers, to which the keen 23 
air of a frosty morning had given a bright rosy tint; but 
the gentlemen choristers had evidently been chosen, like 
old Cremona fiddles, more for tone than looks; and as 
several had to sing from the same book, there were cluster- 
ings of odd physiognomies, not unlike those groups of 30 
cherubs we sometimes see on the country tombstones. 

The usual services of the choir were managed toler- 
ably well, the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind 
the instrumental, and some loitering fiddler now and 



192 • The Sketch Book 

then making up for lost time by traveling over a passage 
with prodigious celerity, and clearing m.ore bars than 
the keenest fox-hunter to be in at the death. But the 
great trial was an anthem that had been prepared and ar- 
5 ranged by Master Simon, and on which he had founded 
great expectation. Unluckily there was a blunder at the 
very outset; the musicians became flurried; Master Simon 
was in a fever; everything went on lamely and irregularly 
until they came to a chorus beginning, " Now let us sing 

10 wnth one accord," which seemed to be a signal for part- 
ing company. All became discord and confusion ; each 
shifted for himself, and got to the end as well, or, rather, 
as soon as he could, excepting one old chorister in a pair 
of horn spectacles bestriding and pinching a long sonorous 

15 nose, who happened to stand a little apart, and being 
wrapped up in his own melody kept on a quavering course, 
wriggling his head, ogling his book, and winding all up 
by a nasal solo of at least three bars' duration. 

The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the 

20 rites and ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of 
observing it not merely as a day of thanksgiving, but of 
rejoicing; supporting the correctness of his opinions by 
the earliest usages of the church, and enforcing them by 
the authorities of Theophilus of Cesarea, St. Cyprian, St. 

25 Chrysostom, St. Augustine, and a cloud more of saints 
and fathers from whom he made copious quotations. I 
was a little at a loss to perceive the necessity of such a 
mighty array of forces to maintain a point which no one 
present seemed inclined to dispute; but I soon found that 

30 the good man had a legion of ideal adversaries to contend 
with ; having in the course of his researches on the sub- 
ject of Christmas got completely embroiled in the sec- 
tarian controversies of the Revolution, when the Puritans 
made such a fierce assault upon the ceremonies of the 



Christmas Day 193 

Church, and poor old Christmas was driven out of the 
land by proclamation of Parliament/ The worthy par- 
son lived but with times past, and knew but little of the 
present. 

Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of 5 
his antiquated little study, the pages of old times were 
to him as the gazettes of the day ; while the era of the 
Revolution was mere modern history. He forgot that 
nearly two centuries had elapsed since the fiery persecu- 
tion of poor mince-pie throughout the land ; when plum 10 
porridge was denounced as " mere popery," and roast- 
beef as anti-christian ; and that Christmas had been 
brought in again triumphantly with the merry court of 
King Charles at the Restoration. He kindled into warmth 
with the ardor of his contest, and the host of imaginary 15 
foes with whom he had to combat; he had a stubborn 
conflict with old Prynne and two or three other for- 
gotten champions of the Roundheads, on the subject of 
Christmas festivity; and concluded by urging his hearers 
in the most solemn and affecting manner to stand to the 20 
traditional customs of their fathers, and feast and make 
merry on this joyful anniversary of the Church. 

I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently 

^ From the Flying Eagle, a small gazette, published December 
24, 1652: "The House spent much time this day about the busi- 
ness of the Navy, for settling the affairs at sea, and before they 
rose, were presented with a terrible remonstrance against Christ- 
mas day, grounded upon divine Scriptures, 2 Cor. v. 16; i Cor. 
XV. 14, 17; and in honor of the Lord's Day, grounded upon these 
Scriptures, John xx. 1 ; Rev. i. 10; Psalm cxviii. 245 Lev. xxiii. 7, 
11; Mark xv. 8; Psalm Ixxxiv. 10, in which Christmas is called 
Antichrist's masse, and those Massemongers and Papists who ob- 
serve it, etc. In consequence of which Parliament spent some 
time in consultation about the abolition of Christmas day, passed 
orders to that eifect, and resolved to sit on the following day, 
which was commonly called Christmas day." 



194 The Sketch Book 

with more immediate effects; for on leaving the church 
the congregation seemed one and all possessed with the 
gayety of spirit so earnestly enjoined by their pastor. The 
elder folks gathered in knots in the churchyard, greet- 
5 ing and shaking hands ; and the children ran about cry- 
ing "Ule! Ule!" and repeating some uncouth rhymes,^ 
which the parson, who had joined us, informed me had 
been handed down from days of yore. The villagers 
doffed their hats to the squire as he passed, giving him 

10 the good wishes of the season with every appearance of 
heartfelt sincerity, and were invited by him to the hall 
to take something to keep out the cold of the weather; 
and I heard blessings uttered by several of the poor, 
which convinced me that in the midst of his enjoyments 

15 the worthy old cavalier had not forgotten the true Christ- 
mas virtue of charity. 

On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowed 
with generous and happy feelings. As we passed over a 
rising ground which commanded something of a pros- 

20 pect, the sounds of rustic merriment now and then 
reached our ears. The squire paused for a few moments, 
and looked around with an air of inexpressible benignity. 
The beauty of the day was of itself sufficient to inspire 
philanthropy. Notwithstanding the frostiness of the 

25 morning, the sun in his cloudless journey had acquired 
sufficient power to melt away the thin covering of snow 
from every southern declivity, and to bring out the living 
green which adorns an English landscape even in mid- 
winter. Large tracts of smiling verdure contrasted with 

30 the dazzling whiteness of the shaded slopes and hollows. 
Every sheltered bank on which the broad rays rested 

'Ule! Ule! 
Three puddings in a pule 
Crack nuts and cry Ule! 



.Christmas Day 195 

yielded its silver rill of cold and limpid water glittering 
through the dripping grass, and sent up slight exhala- 
tions to contribute to the thin haze that hung just above 
the surface of the earth. There was something truly 
cheering in this triumph of warmth and verdure over the 5 
frosty thraldom of winter; it was, as the squire observed, 
an emblem of Christmas hospitality breaking through the 
chills of ceremony and selfishness and thawing every 
heart into a flow. He pointed with pleasure to the indi- 
cations of good cheer reeking from the chimneys of the 10 
comfortable farmhouses and low thatched cottages. " I 
love," said he, '' to see this day well kept by rich and 
poor; it is a great thing to have one day in the 5Tar, at 
least, when you are sure of being welcome wherever you 
go, and of having, as it were, the world thrown all open 15 
to 5^ou; and I am almost disposed to join with Poor 
Robin in his malediction on every churlish enemy to this 
honest festival: 

Those who at Christmas do repine 

And would fain hence dispatch him, 20 

May they with old Duke Humphry dine, 

Or else may Squire Ketch catch 'em. 

The squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of 
the games and amusements which were once prevalent at 
this season among the lower orders and countenanced by 25 
the higher; when the old halls of the castles and manor- 
houses were thrown open to daylight; when the tables 
WTre covered with brawn and beef and humming ale; 
when the harp and the carol resounded all day long, and 
when rich and poor were alike welcome to enter and 30 
make merry.^ " Our old games and local customs," said 

^ " An English gentleman, at the opening of the great day, i.e., 
on Christmas day in the morning, had all his tenants and neigh- 



196 The Sketch Book 

he, "had a great effect in making the peasant fond of 
his home, and the promotion of them by the gentry made 
him fond of his lord. They made the times merrier and 
kinder and better, and I can truly say, with one of our 
5 old poets : 

I like them well ; the curious preciseness 

And all-pretended gravity of those 

That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, 

Have thrust away much ancient honesty. 

10 "The nation," continued he, "is altered; we have al- 
most lost our simple true-hearted peasantry. They have 
broken asunder from the higher classes, and seem to 
think their interests are separate. They have become 
too knowing, and begin to read newspapers, listen to ale- 

15 house politicians, and talk of reform. I think one mode 
to keep them in good humor in these hard times would 
be for the nobility and gentry to pass more time on their 
estates, mingle more among the country people, and set 
the merry old English games going again." 

20 Such was the good squire's project for mitigating pub- 
lic discontent; and indeed he had once attempted to put 
his doctrine in practice, and a few years before had kept 
open house during the holidaj-s in the old style. The 
country people, however, did not understand how to play 

25 their parts in the scene of hospitality; many uncouth 
circumstances occurred ; the manor was overrun by all 
the vagrants of the country, and more beggars drawn 

bors enter his hall by daybreak. The strong beer was broached, 
and the blackjacks went plentifully about with toast, sugar and 
nutmeg, and good Cheshire cheese. The Hackin (the great 
sausage) must be boiled by daybreak, or else two young men 
must take the maiden (i.e., the cook) by the arms, and run her 
round the market-place till she is shamed of her laziness." — 
Round about our Sea-Coal Fire. 



Christmas Day 197 

into the neighborhood in one week than the parish officers 
could get rid of in a j^ear. Since then he had contented 
himself with inviting the decent part of the neighbor- 
ing peasantry to call at the hall on Christmas day, and 
with distributing beef and bread and ale among the poor, 5 
that they might make merry in their own dwellings. 

We had not been long home when the sound of music 
was heard from a distance. A band of country lads 
without coats, their shirt sleeves fancifully tied with rib- 
bons, their hats decorated with greens, and clubs in their 10 
hands, were seen advancing up the avenue, followed by a 
large number of villagers and peasantry. They stopped 
before the hall door, where the music struck up a peculiar 
air, and the lads performed a curious and intricate dance, 
advancing, retreating, and striking their clubs together, 15 
keeping exact time to the music; while one, whimsically 
crowned with a fox's skin, the tail of which flaunted down 
his back, kept capering round the skirts of the dance, 
and rattling a Christmas box with many antic gesticula- 
tions. 20 

The squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great 
interest and delight, and gave me a full account of its 
origin, which he traced to the times when the Romans 
held possession of the island ; plainly proving that this 
was a lineal descendant of the sword dance of the ancients. 25 
" It was now," he said, ** nearly extinct, but he had acci- 
dentally met with traces of it in the neighborhood, and 
had encouraged its revival ; though, to tell the truth, 
it was too apt to be followed by the rough cudgel play, 
and broken heads in the evening." 30 

After the dance was concluded, the whole party was 
entertained with brawn and beef and stout home-brewed. 
The squire himself mingled among the rustics, and was 
received with awkward demonstrations of deference and 



198 The Sketch Book 

regard. It is true I perceived two or three of the younger 
peasants, as they were raising their tankards to their 
mouths when the squire's back was turned, making some- 
thing of a grimace and giving each other the wink; 

5 but the moment they caught my eye they pulled grave 
faces, and were exceedingly demure. With Master 
Simon, however, they all seemed more at their ease. 
His varied occupations and amusements had made him 
well known throughout the neighborhood. He was a 

10 visitor at every farmhouse and cottage, gossiped with the 
farmers and their wives, romped with their daughters, 
and like that type of a vagrant bachelor, the bumblebee, 
tolled the sweets from all the rosy lips of the country 
round. 

15 The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before 
good cheer and affability. There is something genuine 
and affectionate in the gayety of the lower orders when 
it is excited by the bounty and familiarity of those above 
them; the warm glow of gratitude enters into their mirth, 

20 and a kind word or a small pleasantry frankly uttered by 
a patron gladdens the heart of the dependent more than 
oil and wine. When the squire had retired, the merri- 
ment increased, and there was much joking and laughter, 
particularly between Master Simon and a hale, ruddy- 

25 faced, w^hite-headed farmer, who appeared to be the wit 
of the village; for I observed all his companions to wait 
with open mouths for his retorts, and burst into a gra- 
tuitous laugh before they could well understand them. 
The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to merri- 

30 ment ; as I passed to my room to dress for dinner, I 
heard the sound of music in a small court, and looking 
through a window that commanded it, I perceived a band 
of wandering musicians, with pandean pipes and tam- 
bourine; a pretty coquettish housemaid was dancing a 



Christmas Day 199 

jig with a smart country lad, while several of the other 
servants were looking on. In the midst of her sport the 
girl caught a glimpse of my face at the window, and, 
coloring up, ran off with an air of roguish affected con- 
fusion. 5 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 

Lo, now is come our joyful'st feast! 

Let every man be jolly. 
Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest, 

And every post with holly. 
Now all our neighbors' chimneys smoke, 

And Christmas blocks are burning; 
Their ovens they with bak't meats choke 
And all their spits are turning. 

Without the door let sorrow lie, 
And if, for cold, it hap to die, 
Wee'le bury 't in a Christmas pye, 
And evermore be merry. 

WiTHERs's Juvenilia. 

I HAD finished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank 
Bracebridge in the library, when we heard a distant 
thwacking sound, which he informed me was a signal 
for the serving up of the dinner. The squire kept up old 
5 customs in kitchen as well as hall ; and the rolling-pin 
struck upon the dresser by the cook summoned the servants 
to carry in the meats. 

Just in this nick the cook knock'd thrice, 
And all the waiters in a trice 
10 His summons did obeyj 

Each serving-man, with dish in hand, 
March'd boldly up, like our train band, 
Presented, and away.^ 

The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the 
15 squire always held his Christmas banquet. A blazing, 

^ Sir John Suckling. 
200 



The Christmas Dinner 201 

crackling fire of logs had been heaped on to warm the 
spacious apartment, and the flame went sparkling and 
wreathing up the wide-mouthed chimney. The great pic- 
ture of the crusader and his white horse had been pro- 
fusel)^ decorated with greens for the occasion ; and holly 5 
and ivy had likewise been wreathed round the helmet 
and weapons on the opposite wall, which I understood 
were the arms of the same warrior. I must own, by the 
by, I had strong doubts about the authenticity of the 
painting and armor as having belonged to the crusader, 10 
they certainly having the stamp of more recent days; 
but I was told that the painting had been so considered 
time out of mind ; and that, as to the armor, it had been 
found in a lumber room and elevated to its present situa- 
tion by the squire, who at once determined it to be the 15 
armor of the family hero ; and as he w^as absolute authority 
on all such subjects in his own household, the matter had 
passed into current acceptation. A sideboard was set 
out just under this chivalric trophy, on which was a dis- 
play of plate that might have vied (at least in variety) 20 
with Belshazzar's parade of the vessels of the temple ; 
** flagons, cans, cups, beakers, goblets, basins, and ewers," 
the gorgeous utensils of good companionship that had 
gradually accumulated through many generations of jovial 
housekeepers. Before these stood the two Yule candles, 25 
beaming like two stars of the first magnitude ; other lights 
were distributed in branches, and the whole array glit- 
tered like a firmament of silver. 

We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the 
sound of minstrelsy, the old harper being seated on a 30 
stool beside the fireplace, and twanging his instrument 
with a vast deal more power than melody. Never did 
Christmas board display a more goodly and gracious 
assemblage of countenances; those who were not hand- 



202 The Sketch Book 

some were at least happy; and happiness is a rare im- 
prover of your hard-favored visage. I always consider 
an old English family as well worth studying as a col- 
lection of Holbein's portraits or Albert Diirer's prints. 
5 Tliere is much antiquarian lore to be acquired; much 
knowledge of the physiognomies of former times. Per- 
haps it may be from having continually before their eyes 
those rows of old family portraits with which the man- 
sions of this country are stocked ; certain it is that the 

10 quaint features of antiquity are often most faithfully 
perpetuated in these ancient lines; and I have traced an 
old family nose through a whole picture gallery, legiti- 
mately handed down from generation to generation, al- 
most from the time of the Conquest. Something of the 

15 kind was to be observed in the worthy company around 
me. Many of their faces had evidently originated in a 
Gothic age, and been merely copied by succeeding genera- 
tions ; and there was one little girl in particular, of staid 
demeanor, with a high Roman nose and an antique vinegar 

20 aspect, who was a great favorite of the squire's, being, as 
he said, a Bracebridge all over, and the very counterpart 
of one of his ancestors who figured in the court of Henry 
VHI. 

The parson said grace, which was not a short familiar 

25 one, such as is commonly addressed to the Deity in these 
unceremonious days, but a long, courtly, well-worded one 
of the ancient school. There w^as now^ a pause, as if 
something was expected, when suddenly the butler entered 
the hall with some degree of bustle ; he was attended 

30 by a servant on each side with a large wax-light, and bore 
a silver dish on which was an enormous pig's head deco- 
rated with rosemary, with a lemon in its mouth, which 
was placed with great formality at the head of the table. 
The moment this pageant made its appearance, the harper 



The Christmas Dinner 203 

struck up a flourish ; at the conclusion of which the young 
Oxonian, on receiving a hint from the squire, gave, with 
an air of the most comic gravity, an old carol, the first 
verse of which was as follows: 

Caput apri defero 5 

Reddens laudes Domino. 
The boar's head in hand bring I, 
With garlands gay and rosemary. 
I pray you all synge merrily 

Qui estis in convivio. 10 

Though prepared to witness many of these little eccen- 
tricities, from being apprised of the peculiar hobby of mine 
host, yet I confess the parade with which so odd a dish 
was introduced somewhat perplexed me, until I gathered 
from the conversation of the squire and the parson that 15 
it was meant to represent the bringing in of the boar's 
head, a dish formerly served up with much ceremony and 
the sound of minstrelsy and song, at great tables on 
Christmas day. " I like the old custom," said the squire, 
" not merely because it is stately and pleasing in itself, 20 
but because it was observed at the college at Oxford at 
which I was educated. When I hear the old song chanted, 
it brings to mind the time when I w^as young and game- 
some — and the noble old college hall — and my fellow- 
students loitering about in their black gowns; many of 25 
whom, poor lads, are now in their graves! " 

The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by 
such associations, and who was always more taken up 
with the text than the sentiment, objected to the Oxonian's 
version of the carol, which he affirmed was different from 30 
that sung at college. He went on, with the dry per- 
severance of a commentator, to give the college reading, 
accompanied by sundry annotations, addressing himself 



204 The Sketch Book 

at first to the compan)^ at large; but finding their attention 
gradually diverted to other talk and other objects, he 
lowered his tone as his number of auditors diminished, 
until he concluded his remarks in an under voice to a fat- 
5 headed old gentleman next him, who was silently engaged 
in the discussion of a huge plateful of turkey/ 

The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and 
presented an epitome of country abundance in this sea- 
son of overflowing larders. A distinguished post was 
10 allotted to "ancient sirloin," as mine host termed it; 
being, as he added, " the standard of old English hospi- 
tality, and a joint of goodly presence, and full of expec- 
tation." There were several dishes quaintly decorated, 
and which had evidently something traditional in their 

^ The old ceremony of serving up the boar's head on Christ- 
mas day is still observed in the hall of Queen's College, Oxford. 
I was favored by the parson with a copy of the carol as now 
sung, and as it may be acceptable to such of my readers as are 
curious in these grave and learned matters, I give it entire. 

The boar's head in hand bear I, 
Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary ; 
And I pray you, my masters, be merry 
Quot estis in convivio. 

Caput apri defero. 

Reddens laudes Domino. 

The boar's head, as I understand. 
Is the rarest dish in all this land. 
Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland 
Let us servire cantico. 
Caput apri defero, etc. 

Our steward hath provided this 
In honor of the King of Bliss, 
Which on this day to be served is 
In Reginensi Atrio. 
Caput apri defero, 
etc., etc., etc. 



The Christmas Dinner 205 

embenishments; but about which, as I did not like to 
appear over-curious, I asked.no questions. 

I could not, however, but notice a pie, magnificently 
decorated with peacock's feathers, in imitation of the 
tail of that bird, w^hich overshadowed a considerable tract 5 
of the table. This, the squire confessed with some little 
hesitation, was a pheasant pie, though a peacock pie was 
certainly the most authentical; but there had been such 
a mortality among the peacocks this season that he could 
not prevail upon himself to have one killed.^ 10 

It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who 
may not have that foolish fondness for odd and obsolete 
things to which I am a little given, were I to mention 
the other makeshifts of this worthy old humorist, by which 
he was endeavoring to follow up, though at humble 15 
distance, the quaint customs of antiquity. I was pleased, 
however, to see the respect shown to his whims by his 
children and relatives, who, indeed, entered readily into 

^ The peacock was anciently in great demand for stately enter- 
tainments. Sometimes it was made into a pie, at one end of 
which the head appeared above the crust in all its plumage, with 
the beak richly gilt; at the other end the tail was displayed. 
Such pies were served up at the solemn banquets of chivalry, 
when knights-errant pledged themselves to undertake any peril- 
ous enterprise, whence came the ancient oath, used by Justice 
Shallow, " by cock and pie." 

The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas 
feast; and Massinger, in his City Madam, gives some idea of the 
extravagance with which this, as well as other dishes, was pre- 
pared for the gorgeous revels of the olden times: 

Men may talk of Country Christmasses, 

Their thirty pound butter'd eggs, their pies of carps' tongues; 

Their pheasants drench'd with ambergris; the carcases of three 
fat ivethers bruised for gravy to make sauce for a single pea- 
cock. 



2o6 The Sketch Book 

the full spirit of them, and seemed all well versed In their 
parts, having doubtless been present at many a rehearsal. 
I was amused, too, at the air of profound gravity with 
which the butler and other servants executed the duties 

5 assigned them, however eccentric. They had an old- 
fashioned look, — having, for the most part, been brought 
up In the household, and grown Into keeping with the 
antiquated mansion and the humors of Its lord, — and most 
probably looked upon all his w^hlmslcal regulations as the 

10 established laws of honorable housekeeping. 

When the cloth was removed, the butler brought in 
a huge silver vessel of rare and curious workmanship, 
which he placed before the squire. Its appearance was 
hailed with acclamation, being the Wassail Bowl, so re- 

15 nowned In Christmas festivity. The contents had been 
prepared by the squire himself; for it was a beverage in 
the skilful mixture of which he particularly prided him- 
self, alleging that it was too abstruse and complex for the 
comprehension of an ordinary servant. It was a pota- 

20 tion, indeed, that might well make the heart of a toper 
leap within him, being composed of the richest and raciest 
wines, highly spiced and sweetened with roasted apples 
bobbing about the surface.^ 

^ The Wassail Bowl wa's sometimes composed of ale instead of 
wine, with nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs; in 
this way the nut-brown beverage is still prepared in some old 
families, and round the hearths of substantial farmers at Christ- 
mas. It is also called Lamb's Wool, and is celebrated by Her- 
rick in his Twelfth Night: 

Next crowne the bowle full 

With gentle Lamb's Wool ; 
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger, 

With store of ale too; 

And thus ye must doe 
To make the Wassaile a swinger. 



The Christmas Dinner 207 

The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed with 
a serene look of indwelling delight, as he stirred this 
mighty bowl. Having raised it to his lips, with a hearty- 
wish of a merry Christmas to all present, he sent it 
brimming round the board for every one to follow his 5 
example, according to the primitive style — pronouncing 
it " the ancient fountain of good feeling, where all hearts 
met together." ^ 

There was much laughing and rallying as the honest 
emblem of Christmas joviality circulated, and was kissed 10 
rather coyly by the ladies. When it reached Master 
Simon, he raised it in both hands, and with the air of a 
boon companion struck up an old Wassail chanson. 

The brown bowle, 

The merry brown bowle, 15 

As it goes round about-a, 

Fill 

Still, 
Let the world say what it will, 
And drink your fill all out-a. 20 

The deep canne, 

The merry deep canne, 

As thou dost freely quaff-a, 

Sing ♦ 

Fling, 25 

Be as merry as a king, 
And sound a lusty laugh-a.' 

Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon 
family topics to which I was a stranger. There was, 

^ " The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place to 
each having his cup. When the steward came to the doore with 
the Wassel, he was to cry three times, JVassel, IVassel, IVassel, 
and then the chappell (chaplein) was to answer with a song." — 
Arch^ologia. ' From Poor Robin's Almanac. 



2o8 The Sketch Book 

however, a great deal of rallying of Master Simon about 
some gay widow, with whom he was accused of having 
a flirtation. This attack was commenced by the ladies; 
but it was continued throughout the dinner by the fat- 

5 headed old gentleman next the parson, with the perse- 
vering assiduity of a slow hound ; being one of those long- 
winded jokers who, though rather dull at starting game, 
are unrivaled for their talents in hunting it down. At 
every pause in the general conversation he renewed his 

10 bantering in pretty much the same terms, winking hard 
at me with both eyes whenever he gave Master Simon 
what he considered a home thrust. The latter, indeed, 
seemed fond of being teased on the subject, as old 
bachelors are apt to be ; and he took occasion to inform me, 

15 in an undertone, that the lady in question was a prodi- 
giously fine woman and drove her own curricle. 

The dinner-time passed away in this flow of innocent 
hilarity, and though the old hall may have resounded In 
its time with many a scene of broader rout and revel, 

20 yet I doubt whether it ever witnessed more honest and 
genuine enjoyment. How^ easy it is for one benevolent 
being to diffuse pleasure around him; and how truly is 
a kind heart a fountain of gladness, making everything 
in its vicinity to freshen mto smiles! The joyous dis- 

25 position of the worthy squire was perfectly contagious; 

he was happy himself, and disposed to make all the world 

happy; and the little eccentricities of his humor did but 

season, in a manner, the sweetness of his philanthropy. 

When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as 

30 usual, became still more animated ; many good things were 
broached which had been thought of during dinner, but 
which would not exactly do for a lady's ear; and though 
I cannot positively affirm that there was much wit uttered, 
yet I have certainly heard many contests of rare wit pro- 



The Christmas Dinner 209 

duce much less laughter. Wit, after all, is a mighty tart, 
pungent ingredient, and much too acid for some stomachs; 
but honest good humor is the oil and wine of a merry- 
meeting, and there is no jovial companionship equal 
to that where the jokes are rather small and the laughter 5 
abundant. 

The squire told several long stories of early college 
pranks and adventures, in some of which the parson had 
been a sharer; though in looking at the latter it required 
some effort of imagination to figure such a little, dark 10 
anatomy of a man into the perpetrator of a madcap 
gambol. Indeed, the two college chums presented pic- 
tures of what men may be made by their different lots 
in life. The squire had left the university to live lustily 
on his paternal domains, in the vigorous enjoyment of 15 
prosperity and sunshine, and had flourished on to a 
hearty and florid old age ; whilst the poor parson, on the 
contrary, had dried and withered away, among dusty 
tomes, in the silence and shadows of his study. Still there 
seemed to be a spark of almost extinguished fire feebly 20 
glimmering in the bottom of his soul ; and as the squire 
hinted at a sly story of the parson and a pretty milkmaid, 
whom they once met on the banks of the Isis, the old gen- 
tleman made an " alphabet of faces," which, as far as I 
could decipher his physiognomy, I verily believe was in- 25 
dicative of laughter; — indeed, I have rarely met with an 
old gentleman that took absolute offence at the imputed 
gallantries of his youth. 

I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on 
the dry land of sober judgment. The company grew 30 
merrier and louder as their jokes grew duller. Master 
Simon was in as chirping a humor as a grasshopper filled 
with dew ; his old songs grew of a warmer complexion, 
and he began to talk maudlin about the widow. He 



210 The Sketch Book 

even gave a long song about the wooing of a widow, 
which he informed me he had gathered from an excel- 
lent black-letter work, entitled Cupid's Solicitor for Love, 
containing store of good advice for bachelors, and which 
5 he promised to lend me. The first verse was to this 
effect : 



He that will woo a widow must not dally, 

He must make hay while the sun doth shine; 
He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I, 
10 But boldly say, " Widow, thou must be mine." 

This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who 
made several attempts to tell a rather broad story out of 
Joe Miller, that was pat to the purpose; but he always 
stuck in the middle, everybody recollecting the latter part 

15 excepting himself. The parson, too, began to show the 
effects of good cheer, having gradually settled down into 
a doze, and his wig sitting most suspiciously on one side. 
Just at this juncture we were summoned to the drawing- 
room, and, I suspect, at the private instigation of mine 

20 host, whose joviality seemed always tempered with a proper 
love of decorum. 

After the dinner table was removed, the hall was given 
up to the 3^ounger members of the family, who, prompted 
to all kind of noisy mirth by the Oxonian and Master 

25 Simon, made its old walls ring w^ith their merriment, as 
they played at romping games. I delight in witnessing 
the gambols of children, and particularly at this happy 
holiday season, and could not help stealing out of the 
drawing-room on hearing one of their peals of laughter. 

30 I found them at the game of blind-man's-buff. Master 
Simon, who was the leader of their revels, and seemed on 
all occasions to fulfil the office of that ancient potentate, 



The Christmas Dinner 211 

the Lord of Misrule,^ was blinded in the midst of the 
hall. The little beings were as busy about him as the 
mock fairies about Falstaff; pinching him, plucking at the 
skirts of his coat, and tickling him with straws. One 
fine blue-ejed girl of about thirteen, with her flaxen hair 5 
all in beautiful confusion, her frolic face in a glow, her 
frock half torn off her shoulders, a complete picture of a 
romp, was the chief tormentor; and, from the slyness with 
which Master Simon avoided the smaller game, and 
hemmed this wild little nymph in corners, and obliged 10 
her to jump shrieking over chairs, I suspected the rogue 
of being not a whit more blinded than was convenient. 

When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the 
company seated round the fire, listening to the parson, 
who was deeply ensconced in a high-backed oaken chair, 15 
the work of some cunning artificer of yore, which had 
been brought from the library for his particular accom- 
modation. From this venerable piece of furniture, with 
which his shadowy figure and dark weazen face so admi- 
ably accorded, he was dealing out strange accounts of the 20 
popular superstitions and legends of the surrounding coun- 
try, with which he had become acquainted in the course 
of his antiquarian researches. I am half Inclined to think 
that the old gentleman was himself somewhat tinctured 
with superstition, as men are very apt to be who live 25 
a recluse and studious life in a sequestered part of the 
country, and pore over black-letter tracts, so often filled 
with the marvelous and supernatural. He gave us several 
anecdotes of the fancies of the neighboring peasantry con- 

^ At Christmasse there was in the Kinge's house, wheresoever 
hee was lodged, a lorde of misrule, or mayster of merie dis- 
portes, and the like had ye in the house of every nobleman of 
honor, or good worshippe, were he spirituall or temporall. — 
Stow. 



212 The Sketch Book 

cerning the effigy of the crusader which lay on the tomb by 
the church ahar. As it was the only monument of the 
kind in that part of the country, it had always been re- 
garded with feelings of superstition by the good waives of 
5 the village. It was said to get up from the tomb and 
walk the rounds of the churchyard in stormy nights, par- 
ticularly when it thundered ; and one old woman, whose 
cottage bordered on the churchyard, had seen it through 
the windows of the church when the moon shone, slowly 

10 pacing up and down the aisles. It was the belief that 
some wrong had been left unredressed by the deceased, or 
some treasure hidden, which kept the spirit in a state of 
trouble and restlessness. Some talked of gold and jewels 
buried in the tomb, over which the specter kept watch ; 

15 and there was a story current of a sexton in old times 
who endeavored to break his way to the coffin at night, 
but, just as he reached it, received a violent blow from 
the marble hand of the effigy, which stretched him sense- 
less on the pavement. These tales were often laughed at 

20 by some of the sturdier among the rustics, yet, when 
night came on, there were many of the stoutest unbelievers 
that were shy of venturing alone in the footpath that led 
across the churchyard. 

From these and other anecdotes that followed, the cru- 

25 sader appeared to be the favorite hero of ghost stories 
throughout the vicinity. His picture, which hung up in 
the hall, was thought by the servants to have something 
supernatural about it ; for they remarked that in what- 
ever part of the hall you went, the eyes of the warrior 

30 were still fixed upon j^ou. The old porter's wife, too, at 
the lodge, who had been born and brought up in the 
family, and was a great gossip among the maid servants, 
affirmed that in her young days she had often heard say 
that on Midsummer eve, when it was well known all 



The Christmas Dinner 213 

kinds of ghosts, goblins, and fairies become visible and 
walk abroad, the crusader used to mount his horse, come 
down from his picture, ride about the house, down the 
avenue, and so to the church to visit the tomb ; on which 
occasion the church door most civilly swung open of it- 5 
self; not that he needed it, for he rode through closed 
gates and even stone walls, and had been seen by one of 
the dairymaids to pass between two bars of the great 
park gate, making himself as thin as a sheet of paper. 

All these superstitions I found had been very much 10 
countenanced by the squire, who, though not superstitious 
himself, was very fond of seeing others so. He listened 
to every goblin tale of the neighboring gossips with 
Infinite gravity, and held the porter's wife in high favor 
on account of her talent for the marvelous. He was him- 15 
self a great reader of old legends and romances, and often 
lamented that he could not believe in them ; for a super- 
stitious person, he thought, must live in a kind of fairy- 
land. 

Whilst we were all attention to the parson's stories, 20 
our ears were suddenly assailed by a burst of heteroge- 
neous sounds from the hall, in which were mingled some- 
thing like the clang of rude minstrelsy with the uproar 
of many small voices and girlish laughter. The door 
suddenly flew open, and a train came trooping into the 25 
room that might almost have been mistaken for the break- 
ing up of the court of Fairy. That indefatigable spirit, 
Master Simon, in the faithful discharge of his duties as 
Lord of Misrule, had conceived the idea of a Christmas 
mummery, or masking ; and having called In to his assist- 30 
ance the Oxonian and the young officer, who were equally 
ripe for anything that should occasion romping and merri- 
ment, they had carried it into instant effect. The old 
housekeeper had been consulted ; the antique clothespresses 



214 The Sketch Book 

and wardrobes rummaged, and made to 5aeld up the reHcs 
of finery that had not seen the hght for several generations ; 
the younger part of the company had been privately con- 
vened from the parlor and hall, and the whole had been 
5 bedizened out into a burlesque imitation of an antique 
mask.^ 

Master Simon led the van, as Ancient Christmas, 
quaintly appareled in a ruff, a short cloak which had 
very much the aspect of one of the old housekeeper's petti- 

10 coats, and a hat that might have served for a village 
steeple, arid must indubitably have figured in the days 
of the Covenanters. From under this his nose curved 
boldly forth, flushed with a frost-bitten bloom that seemed 
the very trophy of a December blast. He was accompanied 

15 by the blue-eyed romp, dished up as Dame Mince Pie, in 
the venerable magnificence of a faded brocade, long stom- 
acher, peaked hat, and high-heeled shoes. The young offi- 
cer appeared as Robin Hood, in a sporting dress of Kendal 
Green, and a foraging cap with a gold tassel. 

20 The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to deep 
research, and there was an evident eye to the picturesque, 
natural to a young gallant in the presence of his mis- 
tress. The fair Julia hung on his arm in a pretty rustic 
dress as Maid Marian. The rest of the train had been 

25 metamorphosed in various ways; the girls trussed up in 
the finery of the ancient belles of the Bracebridge line, 
and the striplings bewhiskered with burnt cork, and 
gravely clad in broad skirts, hanging sleeves, and full- 
bottomed wigs, to represent the character of Roast 

[ ^ Maskings, or mummeries, were favorite sports at Christmas 
in old times; and the wardrobes at halls and manor houses were 
often laid under contribution to furnish dresses and fantastic 
disguisings. I strongly suspect Master Simon to have taken 
the idea of his from Ben Jonson's Masque of Christmas. 



The Christmas Dinner 215 

Beef, Plum-pudding, and other worthies celebrated in an- 
cient maskings. The whole was under the control of the 
Oxonian, in the appropriate character of Misrule; and I 
observed that he exercised rather a mischievous swaj^ 
with his wand over the smaller personages of the pageant. 5 

The irruption of this motle)/ crew with beat of drum, 
according to ancient custom, was the consummation of 
uproar and merriment. Master Simon covered himself 
with glory by the stateliness with which, as Ancient 
Christmas, he walked a minuet with the peerless, though 10 
giggling, Dame Mince Pie. It was followed by a dance 
of all the characters, which from Its medley of costumes 
seemed as though the old family portraits had skipped 
down from their frames to join In the sport. Different 
centuries were figuring at cross hands and right and left ; 15 
the dark ages were cutting pirouettes and rigadoons; and 
the days of Queen Bess jigging merrily down the middle, 
through a line of succeeding generations. 

The worthy squire contemplated these fantastic sports 
and this resurrection of his old wardrobe with the simple 20 
relish of childish delight. He stood chuckling and rub- 
bing his hands, and scarcely hearing a word the parson 
said, notwithstanding that the latter was discoursing most 
authentically on the ancient and stately dance of the Paon, 
or peacock, from which he conceived the minuet to be 25 
derived.^ For my part, I was In a continual excitement 
from the varied scenes of whim and Innocent gayety pass- 

^ Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the Pavon, 
from pavo, a peacock, says: "It is a grave and majestic dance; 
the method of dancing it anciently was by gentlemen dressed 
with caps and swords, by those of the long robe in their gowns, 
by the peers in their mantles, and by the ladies in gowns with 
long trains, the motion whereof, in dancing, resembled that of a 
peacock." — History of Music, 



2i6 The Sketch Book 

ing before me. It was inspiring to see wild-eyed frolic 
and warm-hearted hospitality breaking out from among 
the chills and glooms of winter, and old age throwing off 
his apathy and catching once more the freshness of youth- 

5 ful enjoyment. I felt also an interest in the scene from 
the consideration that these fleeting customs were posting 
fast into oblivion, and that this was, perhaps, the only 
family in England in which the whole of them was still 
punctiliously observed. There was a quaintness, too, 

10 mingled with all this revelry that gave it a peculiar zest ; 
it was suited to the time and place ; and as the old manor 
house almost reeled with mirth and wassail, it seemed echo- 
ing back the joviality of long departed years. ^ 

But enough of Christmas and its gambols; it is time 

15 for me to pause in this garrulity. Methinks I hear the 
questions asked by my graver readers, " To what pur- 
pose is all this — how is the world to be made wiser by 
this talk ? " Alas ! is there not wisdom enough extant 
for the instruction of the world? And if not, are there 

20 not thousands of abler pens laboring for its improve- 
ment? — It is so much pleasanter to please than to in- 
struct — to play the companion rather than the preceptor. 
What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could 
throw into the mass of knowledge; or how am I sure 

25 that my sagest deductions may be safe guides for the 
opinions of others? But in writing to amuse, if I fail, 
the only evil is in my own disappointment. If, however, 

^ At the time of the first pubHcatlon of this paper, the picture 
of an old-fashioned Christmas in the country was pronounced 
by some as out of date. The author had afterwards an oppor- 
tunity of witnessing almost all the customs above described, ex- 
isting in unexpected vigor in the skirts of Derbyshire and York- 
shire, where he passed the Christmas holidays. The reader 
will find some notice of them in the author's account of his 
\ sojourn at Newstead Abbey. 



The Christmas Dinner 217 

I can by any lucky chance, in these days of evil, rub out 
one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the heavy 
heart of one moment of sorrow; if I can now and then 
penetrate through the gathering film of misanthropy, 
prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and make 
my reader more in good humor with his fellow-beings 
and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have written 
entirely in vain. 



LONDON ANTIQUES 

I do walk 
Methinks like Guido Vaux, with my dark lanthorn, 
Stealing to set the town o' fire; i' th' country 
I should be taken for William o' the Wisp 
Or Robin Goodfellow. 

Fletcher. 

I AM somewhat of an antiquity hunter, and am fond 
of exploring London In quest of the relics of old times. 
These are principally to be found In the depths of the 
city, swallowed up and almost lost In a wilderness of 

5 brick and mortar, but deriving poetical and romantic 
Interest from the commonplace prosaic world around them. 
I was struck with an Instance of the kind In the course of 
a recent summer ramble Into the city; for the city Is 
only to be explored to advantage In summer time, when 

10 free from the smoke and fog and rain and mud of winter. 
I had been buffeting for some time against the current of 
population setting through Fleet Street. The warm 
weather had unstrung my nerves, and made me sensitive 
to every jar and jostle and discordant sound. The flesh 

15 was weary, the spirit faint, and I was getting out of 
humor with the bustling, busy throng through which I 
had to struggle, when in a fit of desperation I tore my 
way through the crowd, plunged Into a by-lane, and, after 
passing through several obscure nooks and angles, emerged 

20 into a quaint and quiet court with a grassplot In the center 
overhung by elms, and kept perpetually fresh and green by 
a fountain with its sparkling jet of water. A student with 

218 



London Antiques 219 

book fn hand was seated on a stone bench, partly reading, 
partly meditating on the movements of two or three 
trim nursery maids with their infant charges. 

I was like an Arab who had suddenly come upon an 
oasis amid the panting sterility of the desert. By degrees 5 
the quiet and coolness of the place soothed my nerves and 
refreshed my spirit. I pursued my walk, and came hard 
by to a very ancient chapel with a low-browed Saxon portal 
of massive and rich architecture. The interior was cir- 
cular and lofty, and lighted from above. Around were 10 
monumental tombs of ancient date, on w^hich were ex- 
tended the marble effigies of warriors in armor. Some had 
the hands devoutly crossed upon the breast ; others grasped 
the pommel of the sword, menacing hostility even in the 
tomb! — while the crossed legs of several indicated soldiers 15 
of the Faith who had been on crusades to the Holy Land. 

I was, in fact, in the chapel of the Knights Templars, 
strangely situated in the very center of sordid traffic ; and 
I do not know a more impressive lesson for the man of the 
world than thus suddenly to turn aside from the highway 20 
of busy money-seeking life, and sit down among these 
shadowy sepulchers, where all is twilight, dust, and for- 
getfulness. 

In a subsequent tour of observation I encountered 
another of these relics of a " foregone w^orld " locked up 25 
in the heart of the city. I had been wandering for some 
time through dull monotonous streets destitute of anything 
to strike the eye or excite the imagination, when I beheld 
before me a Gothic gateway of mouldering antiquity. It 
opened into a spacious quadrangle forming the courtyard 30 
of a stately Gothic pile, the portal of which stood invitingly 
open. 

It was apparently a public edifice, and as I was antiq- 
uity hunting I ventured in, though with dubious steps. 



220 The Sketch Book 

Meeting no one either to oppose or rebuke my intrusion, 
I continued on until I found myself in a great hall with 
a lofty arched roof and oaken gallery, all of Gothic archi- 
tecture. At one end of the hall was an enormous fire- 
5 place with wooden settles on each side ; at the other end 
was a raised platform, or dais, the seat of state, above 
which was the portrait of a man in antique garb, with a 
long robe, a ruff, and a venerable gray beard. 

The whole establishment had an air of monastic quiet 

10 and seclusion, and what gave it a mysterious charm was, 
that I had not met with a human being since I had passed 
the threshold. 

Encouraged by this loneliness, I seated myself in a 
recess of a large bow window, which admitted a broad 

15 flood of yellow sunshine checkered here and there by 
tints from panes of colored glass, w^hile an open case- 
ment let in the soft summer air. Here, leaning my head 
on my hand and my arm on an old oaken table, I indulged 
in a sort of reverie about what might have been the an- 

20 cient uses of this edifice. It had evidently been of monastic 
origin ; perhaps one of those collegiate establishments built 
of yore for the promotion of learning, where the patient 
monk in the ample solitude of the cloister added page to 
page and volume to volume, emulating in the productions 

25 of his brain the magnitude of the pile he inhabited. 

As I was seated in this musing mood, a small paneled 
door in an arch at the upper end of the hall was opened, 
and a number of gray-headed old men clad in long black 
cloaks came forth one by one; proceeding in that manner 

30 through the hall, without uttering a word, each turning 
a pale face on me as he passed, and disappearing through 
a door at the lower end. 

I was singularly struck with their appearance; their 
black cloaks and antiquated air comported with the style 



London Antiques 221 

of this most venerable and mysterious pile. It was as 
if the ghosts of the departed years about which I had 
been musing were passing in review before me. Pleasing 
myself with such fancies, I set out, in the spirit of 
romance, to explore what I pictured to myself a realm 5 
of shadows, existing in the very center of substantial 
realities. 

My ramble led me through a labyrinth of interior courts 
and corridors and dilapidated cloisters, for the main edifice 
had many additions and dependencies, built at various times 10 
and in various styles; in one open space a number of boys, 
who evidently belonged to the establishment, were at their 
sports; but everywhere I observed those mysterious old 
gray men in black mantles, sometimes sauntering alone, 
sometimes conversing in groups; they appeared to be the 15 
pervading genii of the place. I now called to mind what 
I had read of certain colleges in old times, where judicial 
astrology, geomancy, necromancy, and other forbidden and 
m^agical sciences were taught. Was this an establishment 
of the kind, and were these black-cloaked old men really 20 
professors of the black art? 

These surmises were passing through my mind as my 
eye glanced into a chamber hung round with all kinds of 
strange and uncouth objects, implements of savage war- 
fare, strange idols and stuffed alligators; bottled serpents 25 
and monsters decorated the mantelpiece ; while on the high 
tester of an old-fashioned bedstead grinned a human skull, 
flanhed on each side by a dried cat. 

I approached to regard more narrowly this mystic cham- 
ber, which seemed a fitting laboratory for a necromancer, 30 
when I was startled at beholding a human countenance 
staring at me from a dusky corner. It was that of a small, 
shriveled old man with thin cheeks, bright eyes, and gray, 
wiry, projecting eyebrows. I at first doubted whether it 



222 The Sketch Book 

were not a mummy curiously preserved, but It moved, and 
I saw that it was alive. It was another of those black- 
cloaked old men, and as I regarded his quaint physiognomy, 
his obsolete garb, and the hideous and sinister objects by 
5 which he was surrounded, I began to persuade myself that 
I had come upon the arch-mago who ruled over this magi- 
cal fraternity. 

Seeing me pausing before the door, he rose and invited 
me to enter. I obeyed with singular hardihood, for how 

10 did I know whether a wave of his wand might not meta- 
morphose me into some strange monster, or conjure me 
into one of the bottles on his mantelpiece? He proved, 
however, to be anything but a conjurer, and his simple 
garrulity soon dispelled all the magic and mystery with 

15 which I had enveloped this antiquated pile and its no 
less antiquated inhabitants. 

It appeared that I had made my way into the center 
of an ancient asylum for superannuated tradesmen and 
decayed householders, with which was connected a school 

20 for a limited number of boys. It was founded upwards 
of two centuries since on an old monastic establishment, 
and retained somewhat of the conventual air and charac- 
ter. The shadowy line of old men in black mantles who 
had passed before me in the hall, and whom I had ele- 

25 vated into magi, turned out to be the pensioners returning 
from morning service in the chapel. 

John Hallum, the little collector of curiosities whom I 
had made the arch magician, had been for six years a 
resident of the place, and had decorated this final nestling- 

30 place of his old age with relics and rarities picked up 
in the course of his life. According to his own account 
he had been somewhat of a traveler, having been once 
in France, and very near making a visit to Holland. He 
regretted not having visited the latter country, as then 



London Antiques 223 

he might have said he " had been there." He was evi- 
dently a traveler of the simplest kind. 

He was aristocratical too in his notions, keeping aloof, 
as I found, from the ordinary run of pensioners. His 
chief associates were a blind man who spoke Latin and 5 
Greek — of both which languages Hallum was profoundly 
ignorant — and a broken-down gentleman who had run 
through a fortune of forty thousand pounds left him by 
his father, and ten thousand pounds, the marriage portion 
of his wife. Little Hallum seemed to consider it an in- 10 
dubitable sign of gentle blood as well as of lofty spirit 
to be able to squander such enormous sums. 

P. S. The picturesque remnant of old times into which 
I have thus beguiled the reader is what is called the 
Charter House, originally the Chartreuse. It was founded 15 
in 161 1, on the remains of an ancient convent, by Sir 
Thomas Sutton, being one of those noble charities set 
on foot by individual munificence, and kept up with the 
quaintness and sanctity of ancient times amidst the modern 
changes and innovations of London. Here eighty broken- 20 
down men who have seen better days are provided in their 
old age with food, clothing, fuel, and a yearly allow^ance 
for private expenses. They dine together, as did the monks 
of old, in the hall which had been the refectory of the 
original convent. Attached to the establishment is a 25 
school for forty-four boys. 

Stow, whose work I have consulted on the subject, 
speaking of the obligations of the gray-headed pensioners, 
says: "They are not to intermeddle w^ith any business 
touching the affairs of the hospital, but to attend only to 30 
the service of God, and take thankfully what is provided 
for them, w^ithout muttering, murmuring, or grudging. 
None to wear weapon, long hair, colored boots, spurs, 



224 The Sketch Book 

or colored shoes, feathers in their hats, or any ruffian- 
like or unseemly apparel, but such as becomes hospital 
men to wear." " And in truth," adds Stow, " happy are 
they that are so taken from the cares and sorrows of the 
5 world, and fixed in so good a place as these old men 
are ; having nothing to care for but the good of their souls, 
to serve God, and to live in brotherly love." 



For the amusement of such as have been interested 
by the preceding sketch, taken down from my own observa- 

10 tion, and who may wish to know a little more about the 
mysteries of London, I subjoin a modicum of local history, 
put into my hands by an odd-looking old gentleman in 
a small brown wig and a snuff-colored coat, with whom I 
became acquainted shortly after my visit to the Charter 

15 House. I confess I was a little dubious at first whether 
it was not one of those apocryphal tales often passed off 
upon inquiring travelers like myself, and which have 
brought our general character for veracity into such un- 
merited reproach. On making proper inquiries, however, 

20 I have received the most satisfactory assurances of the 
author's probity; and indeed have been told that he is 
actually engaged in a full and particular account of the 
very interesting region in which he resides, of which the 
following may be considered merely as a foretaste. 



LITTLE BRITAIN 

What I write is most true ... I have a whole booke of cases 
lying by me which if I should sette foorth, some grave auntients 
(within the hearing of Bow bell) would be out of charity with 
me. 

Nash. 

In the center of the great city of London lies a small 
neighborhood, consisting of a cluster of narrow streets 
and courts, of very venerable and debilitated houses, 
which goes by the name of Little Britain. Christ 
Church School and St. Bartholomew's Hospital bound 5 
it on the wTst, Smithfield and Long Lane on the north, 
Aldersgate Street like an arm of the sea divides it from 
the eastern part of the city, whilst the yawning gulf of 
Bull-and-Mouth Street separates it from Butcher Lane 
and the regions of Newgate, Over this little territory, lO 
thus bounded and designated, the great dome of St. Paul's, 
swelling above the intervening houses of Paternoster 
Row, Amen Corner, and Ave Maria Lane, looks down 
with an air of motherly protection. 

This quarter derives its appellation from having been 15 
in ancient times the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. 
As London increased, however, rank and fashion rolled 
off to the west, and trade creeping on at their heels took 
possession of their deserted abodes. For some time Little 
Britain became the great mart of learning, and was peopled 20 
by the busy and prolific race of booksellers; these also 
gradually deserted it, and emigrating beyond the great 

225 



226 The Sketch Book 

strait of Newgate Street, settled down In Paternoster Row 
and St. Paul's Churchyard, where they continue to In- 
crease and multiply even at the present day. 

But though thus fallen into decline, Little Britain still 
5 bears traces of its former splendor. There are several 
houses ready to tumble down, the fronts of which are 
magnificently enriched with old oaken carvings of hid- 
eous faces, unknown birds, beasts, and fishes, and fruits 
and flowers which it would perplex a naturalist to classify. 

10 There are also, in Aldersgate Street, certain remains of 
what were once spacious and lordly family mansions, but 
which have in latter days been subdivided into several 
tenements. Here may often be found the family of a 
petty tradesman, with its trumpery furniture, burrowing 

15 among the relics of antiquated finery, in great rambling 
time-stained apartments with fretted ceilings, gilded cor- 
nices, and enormous, marble fireplaces. The lanes and 
courts also contain many smaller houses, not on so grand 
a scale, but like your small ancient gentry, sturdily main- 

20 taining their claims to equal antiquity. These have their 
gable ends to the street ; great bow windows with diamond 
panes set in lead, grotesque carvings, and low arched 
doorways.^ 

In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have 

25 1 passed several quiet years of existence, comfortably 
lodged in the second floor of one of the smallest but 
oldest edifices. My sitting-room is an old wainscoted 
chamber with small panels, and set off with a miscellaneous 
array of furniture. I have a particular respect for three 

30 or four high-backed claw-footed chairs covered with tar- 
nished brocade, which bear the marks of having seen better 

^ It is evident that the author of this interesting communication 
has included, in his general title of Little Britain, many of those 
little lanes and courts that belong immediately to Cloth Fair. 



Little Britain 227 

days, and have doubtless figured in some of the old palaces 
of Little Britain. They seem to me to keep together, 
and to look down with sovereign contempt upon their 
leathern-bottomed neighbors; as I have seen decayed 
gentry carry a high head among the plebeian society with 5 
which they were reduced to associate. The whole front 
of my sitting-room is taken up with a bow window, on the 
panes of which are recorded the names of previous occu- 
pants for many generations, mingled with scraps of very 
indifferent gentlemanlike poetry written in characters 10 
which I can scarcely decipher, and which extol the charms 
of many a beauty of Little Britain, who has long, long 
since bloomed, faded, and passed away. As I am an idle 
personage w^ith no apparent occupation, and pay my bill 
regularly every week, I am looked upon as the only 15 
independent gentleman of the neighborhood; and being 
curious to learn the internal state of a community so ap- 
parently shut up within itself, I have managed to work 
my way into all the concerns and secrets of the place. 

Little Britain may truly be called the heart's core of 20 
the city, the stronghold of true John Bullism. It is a 
fragment of London as it was in its better days, with its 
antiquated folks and fashions. Here flourish in great 
preservation many of the holiday games and customs of 
yore. The inhabitants most religiously eat pancakes on 25 
Shrove Tuesday, hot cross-buns on Good Friday, and 
roast goose at Michaelmas ; they send love-letters on 
Valentine's Day, " burn the pope " on the fifth of Novem- 
ber, and kiss all the girls under the mistletoe at Christ- 
mas. Roast beef and plum-pudding are also held in super- 30 
stitious veneration, and port and sherry maintain their 
grounds as the only true English wines, all others being 
considered vile outlandish beverages. 

Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonders, 



228 The Sketch Book 

which its inhabitants consider the wonders of the world ; 
such as the great bell of St. Paul's, which sours all the 
beer when it tolls; the figures that strike the hours at 
St. Dunstan's clock; the Monument; the lions in the 
5 Tower ; and the wooden giants in Guildhall. They still 
believe in dreams and fortune telling, and an old woman 
that lives in BuU-and-Mouth Street makes a tolerable 
subsistence by detecting stolen goods and promising the 
girls good husbands. They are apt to be rendered uncom- 

10 fortable by comets and eclipses; and if a dog howls dole- 
fully at night, it is looked upon as a sure sign of a death 
in the place. There are even many ghost stories current, 
particularly concerning the old mansion houses, in several 
of which it is said strange sights are sometimes seen. 

15 Lords and ladies — the former in full-bottomed wigs, hang- 
ing sleeves, and swords, the latter in lappets, stays, hoops, 
and brocade — have been seen walking up and down the 
great waste chambers on moonlight nights, and are sup- 
posed to be the shades of the ancient proprietors in their 

20 court dresses. 

Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. 
One of the most important of the former is a tall, dry 
old gentleman, of the name of Skryme, who keeps a small 
apothecary's shop. He has a cadaverous countenance 

25 full of cavities and projections, with a brown circle round 
each eye, like a pair of horn spectacles. He is much 
thought of by the old women, who consider him as a kind 
of conjurer, because he has two or three stuffed alligators 
hanging up in his shop and several snakes in bottles. He 

30 is a great reader of almanacs and newspapers, and is much 
given to pore over alarming accounts of plots, conspiracies, 
fires, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions; which last 
phenomena he considers as signs of the times. He has 
always some dismal tale of the kind to deal out to his 



Little Britain 229 

customers with their doses, and thus at the same time puts 
both soul and body into an uproar. He is a great believer 
in omens and predictions, and has the prophecies of Rob- 
ert Nixon and Mother Shipton b}' heart. No man can 
make so much out of an eclipse, or even an unusually 5 
dark day; and he shook the tail of the last comet over 
the heads of his customers and disciples until they were 
nearly frightened out of their wits. He has lately got 
hold of a popular legend or prophecy, on which he has 
been unusually eloquent. There has been a saying cur- 10 
rent among the ancient sibyls who treasure up these things, 
that when the grasshopper on the top of the Exchange 
shook hands with the dragon on the top of Bow Church 
steeple, fearful events would take place. This strange 
conjunction, it seems, has as strangely come to pass. The 15 
same architect has been engaged lately on the repairs of the 
cupola of the Exchange and the steeple of Bow Church ; 
and, fearful to relate, the dragon and the grasshopper actu- 
ally lie, cheek by jole, in the yard of his workshop. 

" Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, *' may 20 
go star-gazing and look for conjunctions in the heavens, 
but here is a conjunction on the earth, near at home, and 
under our own eyes, which surpasses all the signs and 
calculations of astrologers." Since these portentous 
weathercocks have thus laid their heads together, won- 25 
derful events had already occurred. The good old king, 
notwithstanding that he had lived eighty-two years, had 
all at once given up the ghost ; another king had mounted 
the throne; a rojal duke had died suddenly, another in 
France had been murdered ; there had been radical meet- 30 
ings in all parts of the kingdom ; the bloody scenes at 
Manchester; the great plot in Cato Street, — and above 
all, the Queen had returned to England. All these sin- 
ister events are recounted by Mr. Skryme with a mysteri- 



230 The Sketch Book 

ous look and a dismal shake of the head; and being taken 
with his drugs, and associated in the minds of his auditors 
with stuffed sea monsters, bottled serpents, and his own 
visage, — which is a title-page of tribulation, — they have 
5 spread great gloom through the minds of the people of 
Little Britain. They shake their heads whenever they go 
by Bow Church, and observe that they never expected any 
good to come of taking down that steeple, which in old 
times told nothing but glad tidings, as the history of 

10 Whittington and his Cat bears witness. 

The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial cheese- 
monger, who lives in a fragment of one of the old family 
mansions, and is as magnificently lodged as a round- 
bellied mite in the midst of one of his own Cheshires. In- 

15 deed he is a man of no little standing and importance; and 
his renown extends through Huggin Lane and Lad Lane, 
and even unto Aldermanbury. His opinion is very much 
taken in affairs of state, having read the Sunday papers 
for the last half century, together with the Gentleman's 

20 Magazine, Rapin's History of England, and the Naval 
Chronicle. His head is stored with invaluable maxims 
which have borne the test of time and use for centuries. 
It is his firm opinion that " it is a moral impossible," so 
long as England is true to herself, that anything can shake 

25 her; and he has much to say on the subject of the national 
debt, which, somehow or other, he proves to be a great 
national bulwark and blessing. He passed the greater 
part of his life in the purlieus of Little Britain, until of 
late years, w^hen, having become rich and grown into the 

30 dignity of a Sunday cane, he begins to take his pleasure and 
see the world. He has therefore made several excursions 
to Hampstead, Highgate, and other neighboring towns, 
where he has passed whole afternoons in looking back upon 
the metropolis through a telescope, and endeavoring to 



Little Britain 231 

descry the steeple of St. Bartholomew's. Not a stage 
coachman of Bull-and-Mouth Street but touches his hat 
as he passes; and he is considered quite a patron at the 
coach office of the Goose and Gridiron, St. Paul's Church- 
yard. His family have been very urgent for him to make 5 
an expedition to Margate, but he has great doubts of those 
new gimcracks, the steamboats, and indeed thinks himself 
too advanced in life to undertake sea voyages. 

Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divi- 
sions, and party spirit ran very high at one time in con- 10 
sequence of two rival " Burial Societies " being set up in 
the place. One held its meeting at the Swan and Horse- 
shoe, and was patronized by the cheesemonger; the other 
at the Cock and Crown, under the auspices of the apothe- 
cary; it is needless to say that the latter w^as the most 15 
flourishing. I have passed an evening or two at each, and 
have acquired much valuable information as to the best 
mode of being buried, the comparative merits of church- 
yards, together with divers hints on the subject of patent 
iron coffins. I have heard the question discussed in all its 20 
bearings as to the legality of prohibiting the latter on ac- 
count of their durability. The feuds occasioned by these 
societies have happily died of late ; but they were for a long 
time prevailing themes of controversy, the people of Little 
Britain being extremely solicitous of funereal honors, and 25 
of lying comfortably in their graves. 

Besides these two funeral societies there is a third of 
quite a different cast, which tends to throw the sunshine 
of good humor over the whole neighborhood. It meets 
once a week at a little old-fashioned house kept by a 30 
jolly publican of the name of Wagstaff, and bearing for 
insignia a resplendent half-moon, with a most seductive 
bunch of grapes. The old edifice is covered with inscrip- 
tions to catch the eye of the thirsty wayfarer, such as 



2^2 The Sketch Book 

" Truman, Hanbury & Co.'s Entire," " Wine, Rum, and 
Brandy Vaults," " Old Tom, Rum, and Compounds," etc. 
This Indeed has been a temple of Bacchus and Momus 
from time Immemorial. It has always been in the family 

5 of the Wagstaf^s, so that Its history Is tolerably preserved 
by the present landlord. It was much frequented by the 
gallants and cavalleros of the reign of Elizabeth, and was 
looked Into now and then by the wits of Charles the Sec- 
ond's day. But what Wagstaft principally prides himself 

10 upon Is, that Henry the Eighth, In one of his nocturnal 
rambles, broke the head of one of his ancestors with his 
famous walking-staff. This, however, Is considered as 
rather a dubious and vainglorious boast of the land- 
lord. 

15 The club which now holds Its weekly sessions here 
goes by the name of " The Roaring Lads of Little Britain." 
They abound In old catches, glees, and choice stories that 
are traditional In the place, and not to be met with In any 
other part of the metropolis. There Is a madcap under- 

20 taker who Is inimitable at a merry song ; but the life of 
the club, and Indeed the prime wit of Little Britain, is 
bully WagstafE himself. His ancestors were all wags be- 
fore him, and he has inherited with the Inn a large stock 
of songs and jokes which go with It from generation to 

25 generation as heirlooms. He Is a dapper little fellow with 
bandy legs and pot belly, a red face with a moist merry 
eye, and a little shock of gray hair behind. At the opening 
of every club night he Is called in to sing his " Confession 
of Faith," which Is the famous old drinking troll from 

30 Gammer Gurtons Needle. He sings It, to be sure, with 
many variations, as he received it from his father's lips, 
for It has been a standing favorite at the Half-Moon and 
Bunch of Grapes ever since it was written ; nay, he affirms 
that his predecessors have often had the honor of singing 



Little Britain 233 

It before the nobility and gentry at Christmas mummeries, 
when Little Britain was in all its glory.^ 

It would do one's heart good to hear, on a club night, 
the shouts of merriment, the snatches of song, and now 
and then the choral burst of half a dozen discordant 5 
voices, which issue from this jovial mansion. At such times 
the street is lined with listeners, who enjoy a delight equal 
to that of gazing into a confectioner's window, or snuffing 
up the steams of a cookshop. 

There are two annual events which produce great stir 10 
and sensation in Little Britain ; these are St. Bartholo- 
mew's Fair and the Lord Mayor's Day. During the time 

^ As mine host of the Half-Moon's " Confession of Faith " 
may not be familiar to the majority of readers, and as it is a 
specimen of the current songs of Little Britain, I subjoin it in its 
original orthography. I would observe that the whole club al- 
ways join in the chorus with a fearful thumping on the table and 
clattering of pewter pots. 

I cannot eate but lytle meate. 

My stomacke is not good. 
But sure I thinke that I can drinke 

With him that weares a hood. 
Though I go bare, take ye no care, 

I nothing am a colde, 
I stuff my skyn so full within. 

Of joly good ale and olde. 

Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare. 
Booth foote and hand go colde. 
But belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe 
Whether it be new or olde. 

I have no rost, but a nut brawne toste. 

And a crab laid in the fyre; 
A little breade shall do me steade, 

Much breade I not desyre. 
No frost nor snow, nor winde, I trowe, 

Can hurte mee, if I wolde, 



234 



The Sketch Book 



of the fair, which is held in the adjoining regions of 
Smithfield, there is nothing going on but gossiping and 
gadding about. The late quiet streets of Little Britain 
are overrun with an irruption of strange figures and 

5 faces ; every tavern is a scene of rout and revel. The 
fiddle and the song are heard from the taproom, morn- 
ing, noon, and night ; and at each window may be seen 
some group of boon companions, with half-shut eyes, hats 
on one side, pipe in mouth, and tankard in hand, fondling 

loand prosing, and singing maudlin songs over their liquor. 
Even the sober decorum of private families, which I 
must say is rigidly kept up at other times among my 

I am so wrapt and throwly lapt 
Of joly good ale and olde. 

Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc- 

And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe, 

Loveth well good ale to seeke, 
Full oft drynkes shee, tyll ye may see, 

The teares run downe her cheeks. 
Then doth she trowle to me the bowle, 

Even as a mault-worme sholde, 
And sayth, sweete harte, I tooke my parte 

Of this joly good ale and olde. 

Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc 

Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke, 

Even as goode fellowes sholde doe, 
They shall not mysse to have the blisse, 

Good ale doth bring men to; 
And all poore soules that have scowred bowles, 

Or have them lustily trolde, 
God save the lyves of them and their wives, 

Whether they be yonge or olde. 



Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 



Little Britain 235 

neighbors, is no proof against this Saturnalia. There is no 
such thing as keeping maidservants within doors. Their 
brains are absolutely set madding with Punch and Pup- 
pet Show, the Flying Horses, Signior Polito, the Fire- 
eater, the celebrated Mr. Paap, and the Irish Giant. The 5 
children, too, lavish all their holiday money in toys and 
gilt gingerbread, and fill the house with the Lilliputian 
din of drums, trumpets, and penny whistles. 

But the Lord Mayor's day is the great anniversary. 
The Lord Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of 10 
Little Britain as the greatest potentate upon earth; his 
gilt coach with six horses as the summit of human splen- 
dor; and his procession, with all the sheriffs and alder- 
men in his train, as the grandest of earthly pageants. 
How they exult in the idea that the King himself dare 15 
not enter the city without first knocking at the gate of 
Temple Bar, and asking permission of the Lord Mayor; 
for if he did, heaven and earth! there is no knowing 
v,'hat might be the consequence. The man in armor who 
rides before the Lord Mayor, and is the city champion, 20 
has orders to cut down everybody that offends against 
the dignity of the city; and then there is the little man 
with a velvet porringer on his head, who sits at the w^in- 
dow of the state coach and holds the city sword, as long 
as a pike-staff — Odd's blood ! If he once draws that 25 
sword. Majesty itself is not safe! 

Under the protection of this mighty potentate, there- 
fore, the good people of Little Britain sleep in peace. 
Temple Bar is an effectual barrier against all interior 
foes; and as to foreign invasion, the Lord Mayor has but 30 
to throw himself into the Tower, call in the train bands, 
and put the standing army of beef-eaters under arms, 
and he may bid defiance to the world! 

Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits. 



236 The Sketch Book 

and its own opinions, Little Britain has long flourished 
as a sound heart to this great fungous metropolis. I 
have pleased myself with considering it as a chosen spot, 
where the principles of sturdy John BuUism were gar- 
5 nered up, like seed corn, to renew the national character 
when it had run to waste and degeneracy. I have re- 
joiced also in the general spirit of harmony that pre- 
vailed throughout it; for though there might now and 
then be a few clashes of opinion between the adherents of 

10 the cheesemonger and the apothecary, and an occasional 
feud between the burial societies, yet these were but tran- 
sient clouds, and soon passed away. The neighbors met 
with good-will, parted with a shake of the hand, and 
never abused each other except behind their backs. 

15 I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing parties 
at which I have been present, w^here we played at All- 
Fours, Pope- Joan, Tom-come-tickle-me, and other choice 
old games; and where we sometimes had a good old Eng- 
lish country dance to the tune of Sir Roger de Coverley. 

20 Once a year also the neighbors would gather together 
and go on a gipsy party to Epping Forest. It would 
have done any man's heart good to see the merriment that 
took place here as w^e banqueted on the grass under the 
trees. How we made the woods ring with bursts of 

25 laughter at the songs of little Wagstaff and the merry 
undertaker! After dinner, too, the young folks would 
play at blind-man's-buff and hide-and-seek; and it was 
amusing to see them tangled among the briers, and to hear 
a fine romping girl now and then squeak from among 

30 the bushes. The elder folks would gather round the 
cheesemonger and the apothecary to hear them talk politics, 
for they generally brought out a newspaper in their pockets 
to pass away time in the country. They would now and 
then, to be sure, get a little warm in argument; but their 



Little Britain 237 

disputes were always adjusted by reference to a worthy 
old umbrella-maker in a double chin, who, never exactly 
comprehending the subject, managed somehow or other 
to decide in favor of both parties. 

All empires, however, sa5^s some philosopher or historian, 5 
are doomed to changes and revolutions. Luxury and inno- 
vation creep in, factions arise, and families now and then 
spring up whose ambition and intrigues throw the whole 
system into confusion. Thus in latter days has the tran- 
quillity of Little Britain been grievously disturbed, and 10 
its golden simplicity of manners threatened w^ith total 
subversion, by the aspiring family of a retired butcher. 

The family of the Lambs had long been among the 
most thriving and popular in the neighborhood ; the ]\Iiss 
Lambs were the belles of Little Britain, and everybody 15 
was pleased when old Lamb had made money enough to 
shut up shop and put his name on a brass plate on his 
door. In an evil hour, however, one of the Miss Lambs 
had the honor of being a lady in attendance on the Lady 
Mayoress at her grand annual ball, on which occasion she 20 
wore three towering ostrich feathers on her head. The 
family never got over it; they were immediately smitten 
with a passion for high life; set up a one-horse carriage, 
put a bit of gold lace round the errand boy's hat, and have 
been the talk and detestation of the whole neighborhood 25 
ever since. They could no longer be induced to play at 
Pope- Joan or blind-man's-buff; they could endure no 
dances but quadrilles, which nobody had ever heard of in 
Little Britain; and they took to reading novels, talking 
bad French, and playing upon the piano. Their brother, 30 
too, who had been articled to an attorney, set up for a 
dandy and a critic, characters hitherto unknown in these 
parts; and he confounded the worthy folks exceedingly by 
talking about Kean, the opera, and the Edinburgh Review. 



238 The Sketch Book 

What was still worse the Lambs gave a grand ball, to 
which they neglected to invite any of their old neigh- 
bors, but they had a great deal of genteel company from 
Theobald's Road, Red-Lion Square, and other parts to- 
5 w^ards the west. There were several beaux of their 
brother's acquaintance from Gray's Inn Lane and Hatton 
Garden, and not less than three aldermen's ladies with 
their daughters. This was not to be forgotten or for- 
given. All Little Britain was in an uproar with the 

10 smacking of whips, the lashing of miserable horses, and 
the rattling and the jingling of hackney coaches. The 
gossips of the neighborhood might be seen popping their 
night-caps out at every window, watching the crazy vehi- 
cles rumble by; and there was a knot of virulent old 

15 cronies that kept a lookout from a house just opposite 
the retired butcher's, and scanned and criticised every 
one that knocked at the door. 

This dance was a cause of almost open war, and the 
whole neighborhood declared they would have nothing 

20 more to say to the Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb, 
when she had no engagements with her quality acquaint- 
ance, would give little humdrum tea junketings to some 
of her old cronies, " quite," as she would say, " in a 
friendly way " ; and it is equally true that her invitations 

25 were always accepted, in spite of all previous vows to the 
contrary. Nay, the good ladies would sit and be delighted 
with the music of the Miss Lambs, who would con- 
descend to strum an Irish melody for them on the piano ; 
and they would listen with wonderful interest to Mrs. 

30 Lamb's anecdotes of Alderman Plunket's family, of Port- 
sokenward, and the Miss Timberlakes, the rich heiresses 
of Crutched-Friars ; but then they relieved their con- 
sciences, and averted the reproaches of their confederates, 
by canvassing at the next gossiping convocation everything 



Little Britain 239 

that had passed, and pulling the Lambs and their rout all 
to pieces. 

The only one of the family that could not be made 
fashionable was the retired butcher himself. Honest 
Lamb, in spite of the meekness of his name, was a rough, 5 
hearty old fellow, with the voice of a lion, a head of 
black hair like a shoe-brush, and a broad face mottled 
like his own beef. It was in vain that the daughters 
always spoke of him as " the old gentleman," addressed 
him as '' papa," in tones of infinite softness, and en- 10 
deavored to coax him into a dressing-gown and slippers 
and other gentlemanly habits. Do what they might, there 
was no keeping down the butcher. His sturdy nature 
would break through all their glozings. He had a hearty, 
vulgar good-humor that was irrepressible. His very jokes 15 
made his sensitive daughters shudder; and he persisted in 
wearing his blue cotton coat of a morning, dining at two 
o'clock, and having a " bit of sausage with his tea." 

He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity 
of his family. He found his old comrades gradually 20 
growing cold and civil to him, no longer laughing at his 
jokes, and now and then throwing out a fling at " some 
people," and a hint about " quality binding." This both 
nettled and perplexed the honest butcher; and his wife 
and daughters, with the consummate policy of the shrewder 25 
sex, taking advantage of the circumstance, at length pre- 
vailed upon him to give up his afternoon's pipe and tank- 
ard at Wagstaff's; to sit after dinner by himself and take 
his pint of port — a liquor he detested — and to nod in his 
chair in solitary and dismal gentility. 30 

The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting along 
the streets in French bonnets, with unknown beaux, and 
talking and laughing so loud that it distressed the nerves 
of every good lady within hearing. They even went so 



240 The Sketch Book 

far as to attempt patronage, and actually induced a French 
dancing-master to set up in the neighborhood; but the 
worthy folks of Little Britain took fire at it, and did 
so persecute the poor Gaul that he was fain to pack up 
5 fiddle and dancing pumps, and decamp with such precipita- 
tion that he absolutely forgot to pay for his lodgings. 

I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all 
this fiery indignation on the part of the community was 
merely the overflowing of their zeal for good old English 

10 manners, and their horror of innovation ; and I applauded 
the silent contempt they were so vociferous in expressing 
for upstart pride, French fashions, and the Miss Lambs. 
But I grieve to say that I soon perceived the infection 
had taken hold, and that my neighbors, after condemning, 

15 were beginning to follow their example. I overheard my 
landlady importuning her husband to let their daughters 
have one quarter at French and music, and that they might 
take a few lessons in quadrille. I even saw, in the course 
of a few Sundays, no less than five French bonnets pre- 

20 cisely like those of the Miss Lambs parading about Little 
Britain. 

I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradu- 
ally die away; that the Lambs might move out of the 
neighborhood, might die, or might run away with at- 

25 torneys' apprentices ; and that quiet and simplicity might 
be again restored to the community. But unluckily a 
rival power arose. An opulent oilman died, and left a 
widow with a large jointure and a family of buxom daugh- 
ters. The young ladles had long been repining in secret 

30 at the parsimony of a prudent father, which kept down all 
their elegant aspirings. Their ambition, being now no 
longer restrained, broke out into a blaze, and they openly 
took the field against the family of the butcher. It is true 
that the Lambs, having had the first start, had naturally 



Little Britain 241 



an advantage of them in the fashionable career. They 
could speak a little bad French, play the piano, dance 
quadrilles, and had formed high acquaintances; but the 
Trotters were not to be distanced. When the Lambs 
appeared with two feathers in their hats, the Miss Trot- 5 
ters mounted four, and of twice as fine colors. If the 
Lambs gave a dance, the Trotters were sure not to be 
behindhand; and though they might not boast of as 
good company, yet they had double the number and were 
twice as merry. 10 

The whole community has at length divided itself into 
fashionable factions, under the banners of these two 
families. The old games of Pope-Joan and Tom-come- 
tickle-me are entirely discarded, there is no such thing 
as getting up an honest country dance, and on my attempt- 15 
ing to kiss a young lady under the mistletoe last Christ- 
mas, I was indignantly repulsed, — the Miss Lambs hav- 
ing pronounced it " shocking vulgar." Bitter rivalry has 
also broken out as to the most fashionable part of Little 
Britain, the Lambs standing up for the dignity of Cross- 20 
Keys Square, and the Trotters for the vicinity of St. 
Bartholomew's. 

Thus is this little territory torn by factions and inter- 
nal dissensions, like the great empire whose name it bears; 
and what will be the result would puzzle the apothecary 25 
himself, with all his talent at prognostics, to determine, 
though I apprehend that it will terminate in the total 
downfall of genuine John BuUism. 

The immediate effects are extremely unpleasant to me. 
Being a single man, and, as I observed before, rather an 30 
idle good-for-nothing personage, I have been considered 
the only gentleman by profession in the place. I stand 
therefore in high favor with both parties, and have to 
hear all their cabinet councils and mutual backbitings. 



242 The Sketch Book 

As I am too civil not to agree with the ladles on all 
occasions, I have committed myself most horribly with 
both parties by abusing their opponents. I might man- 
age to reconcile this to my conscience, which is a truly 
5 accommodating one, but I cannot to my apprehension ; 
if the Lambs and Trotters ever come to a reconciliation 
and compare notes, I am ruined ! 

I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in time, 
and am actually looking out for some other nest in this 

TO great city where old English manners are still kept up, 
where French is neither eaten, drunk, danced, nor spoken, 
and where there are no fashionable families of retired 
tradesmen. This found, I will, like a veteran rat, hasten 
away before I have an old house about my ears; bid 

15 a long, though a sorrowful adieu to my present abode, 
and leave the rival factions of the Lambs and the Trot- 
ters to divide the distracted empire of Little Britain. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 

Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 

Of things more than mortal sweet Shakespeare would dream; 

Tne fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, 

For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head. 

Garrick. 

To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide 
world w^hich he can truly call his own, there is a momen- 
tary feeling of something like independence and terri- 
torial consequence, when, after a weary day's travel, he 
kicks off his boots, thrusts his feet into slippers, and 5 
stretches himself before an inn fire. Let the world with- 
out go as it may, let kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he 
has the wherewithal to pay his bill, he is for the time 
being the very monarch of all he surveys. The arm- 
chair is his throne, the poker his scepter, and the little 10 
parlor, some twelve feet square, his undisputed empire. 
It is a morsel of certainty snatched from the midst of the 
uncertainties of life, it is a sunny moment q;leaming out 
kindly on a cloudy day; and he who has advanced some 
way on the pilgrimage of existence knows the impor- 15 
tance of husbanding even morsels and moments of enjoy- • 
ment. " Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn? " thought 
I, as I gave the fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow- 
chair, and cast a complacent look about the little parlor 
of the Red Horse at Stratford-on-Avon. 20 

The words of sweet Shakespeare were just passing 
through my mind as the clock struck midnight from 

243 



244 The Sketch Book 

the tower of the church In which he Hes buried. There 
was a gentle tap at the door, and a pretty chambermaid, 
putting in her smiling face, inquired with a hesitating 
air whether I had rung, I understood it as a modest 
5 hint that it was time to retire. My dream of absolute 
dominion was at an end ; so abdicating my throne like 
a prudent potentate to avoid being deposed, and putting 
the Stratford Guide-Book under my arm as a pillow com- 
panion, I went to bed, and dreamt all night of Shakespeare, 

10 the Jubilee, and David Garrick. 

The next morning was one of those quickening morn- 
ings which we sometimes have in early spring, for it was 
about the middle of March. The chills of a long winter 
had suddenly given way, the north wind had spent its 

15 last gasp, and a mild air came stealing from the west, 

breathing the breath of life into nature and wooing every 

bud and flower to burst forth into fragrance and beauty. 

I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My 

first visit was to the house where Shakespeare was born, 

20 and where, according to tradition, he was brought up to 
his father's craft of wool-combing. It is a small, mean- 
looking edifice of wood and plaster, a true nestling-place 
of genius, which seems to delight in hatching its off- 
spring in by-corners. The walls of its squalid chambers 

25 are covered with names and inscriptions in every lan- 
guage, by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, and conditions, 
from the prince to the peasant, and present a simple 
but striking instance of the spontaneous and universal 
homage of mankind to the great poet of nature. 

30 The house is shown by a garrulous old lady in a frosty 
red face lighted up by a cold blue, anxious eye, and gar- 
nished with artificial locks of flaxen hair curling from 
under an exceedingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly as- 
siduous in exhibiting the relics with which this, like all 



Stratford-on-Avon 245 

other celebrated shrines, abounds. There was the shat- 
tered stock of the very matchlock with which Shakespeare 
shot the deer on his poaching exploits. There, too, was 
his tobacco box, which proves that he was a rival smoker 
of Sir Walter Raleigh ; the sword also with w^hich he 5 
played Hamlet; and the identical lantern with which 
Friar Laurence discovered Romeo and Juliet at the tomb! 
There was an ample supply also of Shakespeare's mulberry 
tree, which seems to have as extraordinary powers of self- 
multiplication as the wood of the true cross, of which 10 
there is enough extant to build a ship of the line. 

The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is 
Shakespeare's chair. It stands in the chimney nook of 
a small gloomy chamber, just behind what was his father's 
shop. Here he may many a time have sat when a boy, 15 
watching the slowly revolving spit with all the longing 
of an urchin, or. of an evening listening to the cronies and 
gossips of Stratford dealing forth churchyard tales and 
legendary anecdotes of the troublesome times of Eng- 
land. In this chair it is the custom of every one that 20 
visits the house to sit, — whether this be done with the 
hope of imbibing any of the inspiration of the bard I am 
at a loss to say, I merely mention the fact, — and mine 
hostess privately assured me that, though built of solid 
oak, such was the fervent zeal of devotees that the chair 25 
had to be new bottomed at least once in three years. It 
is worthy of notice also, in the history of this extraordi- 
nary chair, that it partakes something of the volatile 
nature of the Santa Casa of Loretto or the flying chair 
of the Arabian enchanter ; for though sold some few 30 
years since to a northern princess, yet, strange to tell, it 
has found its way back again to the old chimney corner. 

I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am ever 
willing to be deceived where the deceit is pleasant and 



246 The Sketch Book 

• costs nothing. I am therefore a ready believer in relics, 
legends, and local anecdotes of goblins and great men, 
and would advise all travelers w^ho travel for their grati- 
fication to be the same. What is it to us whether these 
S stories be true or false, so long as we can persuade our- 
selves into the belief of them_ and enjoy all the charm 
of the reality? There is nothing like resolute, good- 
humored credulity in these matters; and on this occa- 
sion I went even so far as willingly to believe the claims 

10 of mine hostess to a lineal descent from the poet, when, 
unluckily for my faith, she put into my hands a play of 
her own composition which set all belief in her consan- 
guinity at defiance. 

From the birthplace of Shakespeare a few paces brought 

15 me to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the parish 
church, a large and venerable pile, mouldering with age, 
but richly ornamented. It stands on the banks of the 
Avon, on an embowered point, and separated by adjoin- 
ing gardens from the suburbs of the town. Its situation 

20 is quiet and retired ; the river runs murmuring at the 
foot of the churchyard, and the elms which grow upon 
its banks droop their branches into its clear bosom. An 
avenue of limes, the boughs of which are curiously inter- 
laced so as to form in summer an arched way of foliage, 

25 leads up from the gate of the yard to the church porch. 
The graves are overgrown with grass ; the gray tomb- 
stones, some of them nearly sunk into the earth, are half 
covered with moss, which has likewise tinted the reverend 
old building. Small birds have built their nests among 

30 the cornices and fissures of the walls, and keep up a con- 
tinual flutter and chirping, and rooks are sailing and caw- 
ing about its lofty gray spire. 

In the course of my rambles I met with the gray- 
headed sexton, Edmonds, and accompanied him home 



Stratford-on-Avon 247 

to get the key of the church. He had lived In Stratford, 
man and boy, for eighty years, and seemed still to con- 
sider himself a vigorous man, with the trivial exception 
that he had nearly lost the use of his legs a few years 
past. His dwelling was a cottage looking out upon the 5 
Avon and its bordering meadows, and was a picture of 
that neatness, order, and comfort which pervade the 
humblest dwellings in this country. A low white-washed 
room, with a stone floor carefully scrubbed, served for 
parlor, kitchen, and hall. Rows of pewter and earthen 10 
dishes glittered along the dresser. On an old oaken 
table, well rubbed and polished, lay the family Bible and 
prayer-book, and the drawer contained the family library, 
composed of about half a score of well-thumbed volumes. 
An ancient clock, that important article of cottage furni- 15 
ture, ticked on the opposite side of the room, with a 
bright warmJng-pan hanging on one side of It, and the 
old man's horn-handled Sunday cane on the other. The 
fireplace, as usual, was wide and deep enough to admit a 
gossip knot within its jambs. In one corner sat the old 20 
man's granddaughter sewing, a pretty blue-eyed girl ; and 
in the opposite corner was a superannuated crony whom 
he addressed by the name of John Ange, and who, I 
found, had been his companion from childhood. They 
had played together In infancy; they had worked together 25 
in manhood ; they were now tottering about and gossip- 
ing away the evening of life; and in a short time they will 
probably be burled together in the neighboring church- 
yard. It is not often that we see two streams of exist- 
ence running thus evenly and tranquilly side by side; it 30 
is only in such quiet ** bosom scenes " of life that they 
are to be met with. 

I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of 
the bard from these ancient chroniclers, but they had 



248 The Sketch Book 

nothing new to impart. The long interval during which 
Shakespeare's writings lay in comparative neglect has 
spread its shadow over his history, and it is his good or 
evil lot that scarcely anything remains to his biographers 
5 but a scanty handful of conjectures. 

The sexton and his companion had been employed as 
carpenters on the preparations for the celebrated Strat- 
ford Jubilee, and they remembered Garrick, the prime 
mover of the fete, who superintended the arrangements, 

TO and who, according to the sexton, was " a short punch 
man, very lively and bustling." John Ange had assisted 
also in cutting down Shakespeare's mulberry tree, of 
which he had a morsel in his pocket for sale, no doubt 
a sovereign quickener of literary conception. 

15 I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak 
very dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shake- 
speare house. John Ange shook his head when I men- 
tioned her valuable collection of relics, particularly her 
remains of the mulberry tree; and the old sexton even 

20 expressed a doubt as to Shakespeare having been born in 
her house. I soon discovered that he looked upon her 
mansion with an evil eye as a rival to the poet's tomb, the 
latter having comparatively but few visitors. Thus it is 
that historians differ at the very outset, and mere pebbles 

25 make the stream of truth diverge into different channels 
even at the fountain head. 

We approached the church through the avenue of limes, 
and entered by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented, with 
carved doors of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and 

30 the architecture and embellishments superior to those of 
most country churches. There are several ancient monu- 
ments of nobility and gentry, over some of which hang 
funeral escutcheons, and banners dropping piecemeal from 
the walls. The tomb of Shakespeare is in the chancel. 



Stratford-on-Avon . 249 

The place is solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms wave be- 
fore the pointed windows, and the Avon, which runs at a 
short distance from the walls, keeps up a low perpetual 
murmur. A flat stone marks the spot where the bard is 
buried. There are four lines inscribed on it, said to have 5 
been written by himself, and which have in them something 
extremeh' awful. If they are indeed his own, they show 
that solicitude about the quiet of the grave which seems 
natural to fine sensibilities and thoughtful minds. 

Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare 10 

To dig the dust enclosed here. 
Blessed be he that spares these stones, 
And curst be he that moves my bones. 

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wnW, is a bust 
of Shakespeare, put up shortly after his death, and con- 15 
sidered as a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and 
serene, with a finely arched forehead, and I thought I 
could read in it clear indications of that cheerful, social 
disposition by which he was as much characterized among 
his contemporaries as by the vastness of his genius. The 20 
inscription mentions his age at the time of his decease, — 
fifty-three years, — an untimely death for the world ; for 
what fruit might not have been expected from the golden 
autumn of such a mind, sheltered as it was from the 
stormy vicissitudes of life, and flourishing in the sunshine 25 
of popular and royal favor. 

The inscription on the tombstone has not been with- 
out its effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains 
from the bosom of his native place to Westminister 
Abbey, which was at one time contemplated. A few years 30 
since, also, as some laborers were digging to make an ad- 
joining vault, the earth caved In so as to leave a vacant 
space almost like an arch, through which one might have 
reached into his grave. No one, however, presumed to med- 



2 5^ The Sketch Book 

die with his remains so awfully guarded by a malediction ; 
and lest any of the idle or the curious, or any collector of 
relics, should be tempted to commit depredations, the old 
sexton kept watch over the place for two days, until the 
5 vault was finished and the aperture closed again. He told 
me that he had made bold to look in at the hole, but could 
see neither coffin nor bones — nothing but dust. It was 
something, I thought, to have seen the dust of Shakespeare. 
Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite 

10 daughter, Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a 
tomb close by, also, is a full-length effigy of his old friend, 
John Combe of usurious memory, on whom he is said to 
have written a ludicrous epitaph. There are other monu- 
ments around, but the mind refuses to dwell on anything 

IS that is not connected with Shakespeare. His idea per- 
vades the place, the whole pile seems but as his mausoleum. 
The feelings, no longer checked and thwarted by doubt, 
here indulge in perfect confidence; other traces of him may 
be false or dubious, but here is palpable evidence and 

20 absolute certainty. As I trod the sounding pavement, there 
was something intense and thrilling in the idea that in 
very truth the remains of Shakespeare were mouldering 
beneath my feet. It was a long time before I could 
prevail upon myself to leave the place; and as I passed 

25 through the churchyard I plucked a branch from one of the 
yew trees, the only relic that I have brought from Strat- 
ford. 

I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's 
devotion, but I had a desire to see the old family seat 

30 of the Lucys, at Charlecote, and to ramble through the 
park where Shakespeare, in company with some of the 
roysters of Stratford, committed his youthful offence of 
deer-stealing. In this hair-brained exploit we are told 
that he was taken prisoner and carried to the keeper's 



Stratford-on-Avon 251 

lodge, where he remained all night in doleful captivity. 
When brought into the presence of Sir Thomas Lucy his 
treatment must have been galling and humiliating, for 
it so wrought upon his spirit as to produce a rough pas- 
quinade, which was affixed to the park gate at Charlecote.^ 5 

This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the knight 
so incensed him, that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick 
to put the severity of the laws in force against the rhym- 
ing deer-stalker. Shakespeare did not wait to brave the 
united puissance of a knight of the shire and a country 10 
attorney. He forthwith abandoned the pleasant banks of 
the Avon and his paternal trade, wandered away to London, 
became a hanger-on to the theaters, then an actor, and 
finally wrote for the stage ; and thus, through the persecu- 
tion of Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an indifferent 15 
wool-comber, and the world gained an immortal poet. 
He retained, however, for a long time, a sense of the harsh 
treatment of the Lord of Charlecote, and revenged himself 
in his writings, but in the sportive way of a good-natured 
mind. Sir Thomas is said to be the original Justice Shal- 20 
low, and the satire is slyly fixed upon him by the justice's 
armorial bearings, which, like those of the knight, had 
white luces ^ in the quarterings. 

^ The following is the only stanza extant of this lampoon: 

A parliament member, a justice of peace, 
At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, 
If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then Litcy is lowsie, whatever befall it. 

He thinks himself great, 

Yet an asse in his state, 
We allow by his ears but with asses to mate, 
If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then sing Lowsie Lucy whatever befall it. 

"The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon about 
Charlecote. 



252 The Sketch Book 

Various attempts have been made by his biographers 
to soften and explain away this early transgression of the 
poet ; but I look upon it as one of those thoughtless 
exploits natural to his situation and turn of mind. Shake- 
5 speare, when young, had doubtless all the wildness and 
irregularity of an ardent, undisciplined, and undirected 
genius. The poetic temperament has naturally something 
in it of the vagabond. When left to itself it runs loosely 
and wildly, and delights in everything eccentric and licen- 

10 tious. It is often a turn-up of a die, in the gambling 
freaks of fate, whether a natural genius shall turn out 
a great rogue or a great poet ; and had not Shakespeare's 
mind fortunately taken a literary bias, he might have as 
daringly transcended all civil, as he has all dramatic laws. 

15 I have little doubt that in early life, when running, 
like an unbroken colt about the neighborhood of Strat- 
ford, he was to be found in the company of all kinds of 
odd anomalous characters; that he associated with all 
the madcaps of the place, and was one of those unlucky 

26 urchins at mention of whom old men shake their heads, 
and predict that they will one day come to the gallows. 
To him the poaching in Sir Thomas Lucy's park was 
doubtless like a foray to a Scottish knight, and struck 
his eager and as yet untamed imagination as something 

25 delightfully adventurous.^ 

^A proof of Shakespeare's random habits and associates in his 
youthful days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked 
up at Stratford by the elder Ireland, and mentioned in his Pic- 
turesque Vieivs on the A'von. 

About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market 
town of Bedford, famous for its ale. Two societies of the village 
yeomanry used to meet, under the appellation of the " Bedford 
topers," and to challenge the lovers of good ale of the neighbor- 
ing villages to a contest of drinking. Among others, the people 
of Stratford were called out to prove the strength of their heads, 



Stratford-on-Avon 253 

The old mansion of Charlecote and its surrounding 
park still remain in the possession of the Lucy family, 
and are peculiarly interesting from being connected with 
this whimsical but eventful circumstance in the scanty 
history of the bard. As the house stood but little more 5 
than three miles' distance from Stratford, I resolved to pay 
it a pedestrian visit, that I might stroll leisurely through 
some of those scenes from which Shakespeare must have 
derived his earliest ideas of rural imagery. 

The country was yet naked and leafless, but English 10 
scenery is alwaj^s verdant, and the sudden change in the 
temperature of the weather was surprising in its quicken- 
ing effects upon the landscape. It was inspiring and 
animating to witness this first awakening of spring, to 
feel its warm breath stealing over the senses, to see the 15 

and in the number of the champions was Shakespeare, who, in 
spite of the proverb that " they who drink beer will think beer," 
was as true to his ale as Falstaff to his sack. The chivalry of 
Stratford was staggered at the first onset, and sounded a re- 
treat while they had yet legs to carry them off the field. They 
had scarcely marched a mile when, their legs failing them, they 
were forced to lie down under a crab tree, where they passed the 
night. It is still standing, and goes by the name of Shake- 
speare's tree. 

In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and pro- 
posed returning to Bedford, but he declined, saying he had had 
enough, having drank with 

Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, 
Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, 
Dudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, 
Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford. 

"The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, "still bear the 
epithets thus given them; the people of Pebworth are still famed 
for their skill on the pipe and tabor; Hilborough is now called 
' Haunted Hilborough,' and Grafton is famous for the poverty of 
its soil." 



254 The Sketch Book 

moist mellow earth beginning to put forth the green 
sprout and the tender blade, and the trees and shrubs in 
their reviving tints and bursting buds giving the promise 
of returning foliage and flower. The cold snowdrop, 
5 that little borderer on the skirts of winter, was to be seen 
with its chaste white blossoms in the small gardens before 
the cottages. The bleating of the new-dropt lambs was 
faintly heard from the fields. The sparrow twittered 
about the thatched eaves and budding hedges; the robin 

10 threw a livelier note into his late querulous wintry strain; 
and the lark, springing up from the reeking bosom of the 
meadow, towered away into the bright fleecy cloud, pour- 
ing forth torrents of melody. As I watched the little 
songster, m.ounting up higher and higher until his body 

15 was a mere speck on the white bosom of the cloud, while 
the ear was still filled with his music, it called to mind 
Shakespeare's exquisite little song in Cy?nbeline : 

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings. 
And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
20 His steeds to water at those springs, 

On chaHced flowers that lies. 

And winking mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes ; 
With everything that pretty bin, 
25 My lady sweet arise! 

Indeed the whole country about here is poetic ground; 
everything is associated with the idea of Shakespeare. 
Every old cottage that I saw, I fancied into some resort 
of his boyhood, where he had acquired his intimate knowl- 
30 edge of rustic life and manners, and heard those legendary 
tales and wild superstitions which he has woven like witch- 
craft into his dramas. For in his time, we are told, it 
was a popular amusement in winter evenings *' to sit 



Stratford-on-Avon 255 

round the fire and tell merry tales of errant knights, 
queens, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves, cheat- 
ers, witches, fairies, goblins, and friars." ^ 

My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the 
Avon, which made a variety of the most fancy doublings 5 
and windings through a wide and fertile valley; some- 
times glittering from among willows which fringed its 
borders, sometimes disappearing among groves or beneath 
green banks, and sometimes rambling out into full view, 
and making an azure sweep round a slope of meadow 10 
land. This beautiful bosom of country is called the 
Vale of the Red Horse. A distant line of undulating 
blue hills seems to be its boundary, whilst all the soft 
intervening landscape lies in a manner enchained in the 
silver links of the Avon. 15 

After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned 
off into a footpath which led along the borders of fields 
and under hedgerows to a private gate of the park ; there 
was a stile, however, for the benefit of the pedestrian, 
there being .a public right of way through the grounds. 20 
I delight in these hospitable estates, in which every one 
has a kind of property — at least as far as the footpath is 
concerned. It in some measure reconciles a poor man to his 
lot, and what is more to the better lot of his neighbor, thus 
to have parks and pleasure grounds thrown open for his 25 
recreation. He breathes the pure air as freely and lolls 

^ Scot, in his Discoi'erie of Witchcraft, enumerates a host of 
these fireside fancies. " And they have so fraid us with bull- 
beggars, spirits, witches, urchins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, 
pans, faunes, syrens, kit with the can sticke, tritons, centaurs, 
dwarfes, giantes, impes, calcars, conjurers, nymphes, change- 
lings, incubus, Robin-good-fellow, the spoorne, the mare, the 
man in the oke, the hell-waine, the fier-drake, the puckle, Tom 
Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom Tumbler, boneless, and such other 
bugs, that we were afraid of our own shadowes." 



256 The Sketch Book 

as luxuriousl)^ under the shade as the lord of the soil ; and 
if he has not the privilege of calling all that he sees his 
own, he has not at the same time the trouble of paying for 
it and keeping it in order. 
5 I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and 
elms whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. 
The wind sounded solemnly among their branches, and 
the rooks cawed from their hereditary nests in the tree- 
tops. The eye ranged through a long lessening vista, 

10 with nothing to interrupt the view but a distant statue 
and a vagrant deer stalking like a shadow across the 
opening. 

There is something about these stately old avenues 
that has the effect of Gothic architecture, not merely 

15 from the pretended similarity of form, but from their 
bearing the evidence of long duration, and of having had 
their origin in a period of time with which we associate 
ideas of romantic grandeur. They betoken also the long 
settled dignity and proudly concentrated independence 

20 nf an ancient family; and I have heard a worthy but 
aristocratic old friend observe, when speaking of the sump- 
tuous palaces of modern gentry, that money could do much 
with stone and mortar, but, thank Heaven, there was no 
such thing as suddenly building up an avenue of oaks. 

25 It was from wandering in early life among this rich 
scenery and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining 
park of Fullbroke, which then formed a part of the 
Lucy estate, that some of Shakespeare's commentators 
have supposed he derived his noble forest meditations of 

3oJaques and the enchanting woodland pictures in As You 
Like It. It is in lonely wanderings through such scenes 
that the mind drinks deep but quiet draughts of inspira- 
tion and becomes intensely sensible of the beauty and 
majesty of nature. The imagination kindles into reverie 



Stratford-on-Avon 257 

and rapture, vague but exquisite images and ideas keep 
breaking upon it; and we revel in a mute and almost 
incommunicable luxury of thought. It was in some such 
mood, and perhaps under one of those very trees before 
me which threw their broad shades over the grassy banks 5 
and quivering waters of the Avon, that the poet's fancy 
may have sallied forth into that little song which breathes 
the very soul of a rural voluptuary: 

Under the greenwood tree, 

Who loves to lie with me, 10 

And tune his merry throat 
Unto the sweet bird's note, 
Come hither, come hither, come hither. 
Here shall he see 

No enemy, 1 5 

But winter and rough weather. 

i' had now come in sight of the house. It is a large 
building of brick, with stone quoins, and is in the Gothic 
style of Queen Elizabeth's day, having been built in the 
first year of her reign. The exterior remains very nearly 20 
in its original state, and may be considered a fair speci- 
men of the residence of a wealthy country gentleman of 
those days. A great gateway opens from the park into 
a kind of courtyard in front of the house, ornamented 
with a grass-plot, shrubs, and flower-beds. The gateway 25 
is in imitation of the ancient barbican, being a kind of 
outpos-t, and flanked by towers, though evidently for mere 
ornament instead of defence. The front of the house 
is completely in the old style, with stone-shafted case- 
ments, a great bow-window of heavy stone-work, and 30 
a portal with armorial bearings over it carved in stone. 
At each corner of the building is an octagon tower sur- 
mounted by a gilt ball and weathercock. 

The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a 



258 The Sketch Book 

bend just at the foot of a gently sloping bank which 
sweeps down from the rear of the house. Large herds 
of deer were feeding or reposing upon its borders, and 
swans were sailing majestically upon its bosom. As I 
5 contemplated the venerable old mansion, I called to mind 
Falstaff's encomium on Justice Shallow's abode, and the 
affected indifference and real vanity of the latter: 

Falstaff. You have a goodly dwelling and a rich. 
S/ialloiv. Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, 
10 Sir John: — marry, good air. 

Whatever may have been the joviality of the old man- 
sion in the days of Shakespeare, it had now an air of still- 
ness and solitude. The great iron gateway that opened 
into the courtyard was locked ; there was no show of serv- 

15 ants bustling about the place; the deer gazed quietly at 
me as I passed, being no longer harried by the moss- 
troopers of Stratford. The only sign of domestic life 
that I met with was a white cat stealing with wary look 
and stealthy pace toward the stables, as if on some 

20 nefarious expedition. I must not omit to mention the 
carcase of a scoundrel crow which I saw suspended 
against the barn wall, as it shows that the Lucys still 
inherit that lordly abhorrence of poachers and maintain 
that rigorous exercise of territorial power w^hich was so 

25 strenuously manifested in the case of the bard. 

After prowling about for some time, I at length found 
my way to a lateral portal which was the everyday 
entrance to the mansion. I was courteously received by 
a worthy old housekeeper, who, with the civility and 

30 communicativeness of her order, showed me the interior 
of the house. The greater part has undergone altera- 
tions and been adapted to modern tastes and modes of 
living. There is a fine old oaken staircase, and the 



Stratford-on-Avon 259 

great hall, that noble feature in an ancient manor-house, 
still retains much of the appearance it must have had In 
the days of Shakespeare. The celling Is arched and lofty, 
and at one end is a gallery in which stands an organ. 
The weapons and trophies of the chase, which formerly 5 
adorned the hall of a country gentleman, have made way 
for family portraits. There is a wide, hospitable fireplace, 
calculated for an ample, old-fashioned wood fire, formerly 
the rallying-place of winter festivity. On the opposite 
side of the hall is the huge Gothic bow-window with 10 
stone shafts, which looks out upon the courtyard. Here 
are emblazoned In stained glass the armorial bearings of 
the Lucy family for many generations, some being dated 
In 1558. I was delighted to observe In the quarterlngs 
the three luhite luces by which the character of Sir Thomas 15 
was first Identified with that of Justice Shallow. They 
are mentioned In the first scene of the Merry Wives of 
Windsor, where the justice Is in a rage with Falstal^ for 
having " beaten his men, killed his deer, and broken Into 
his lodge." The poet had no doubt the offences of him- 20 
self and his comrades In mind at the time, and we may 
suppose the family pride and vindictive threats of the 
puissant Shallow to be a caricature of the pompous indig- 
nation of Sir Thomas. 

Shalloiv. Sir Hugh, persuade me not: I will make a Star 25 
Chamber matter of it; if he were twenty John Falstaffs, he 
shall not abuse Sir Robert Shallow, Esq. 

Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and 
coram. 

Shallozc. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalonim. 30 

Slender. Ay, and ratalorum, too, and a gentleman born, 
master parson; who writes himself Armigero in any bill, war- 
rant, quittance, or obligation, Armigero. 

Shalloiv. Ay, that I do ; and have done any time these three 
hundred years. 35 



26o The Sketch Book 

Slender. All his successors gone before him have done 't, 
and all his ancestors that come after him may; they may give 
the dozen 'white luces in their coat. 

Shalloiv. The council shall hear it; it is a riot. 
5 Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot; there is no 
fear of Got in a riot; the council, hear you, shall desire to 
hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a not; take your viza- 
ments in that. 

Shalloiv. Ha! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword 
10 should end it! 



Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by 
Sir Peter Lely of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty 
of the time of Charles the Second. The old housekeeper 
shook her head as she pointed to the picture, and informed 

15 me that this lady had been sadly addicted to cards, and 
had gambled away a great portion of the family estate, 
among which was that part of the park where Shake- 
speare and his comrades had killed the deer. The lands 
thus lost had not been entirely regained by the family 

20 even at the present day. It is but justice to this recreant 
dame to confess that she had a surpassingly fine hand 
and arm. 

The picture which most attracted my attention was a 
great painting over the fireplace, containing likenesses 

25 of Sir Thomas Lucy and his family, who inhabited the 
hall in the latter part of Shakespeare's lifetime. I at 
first thought that it was the vindictive knight himself, but 
the housekeeper assured me that it was his son, the only 
likeness extant of the former being an effigy upon his 

30 tomb in the church of the neighboring hamlet of Charle- 
cote.^ The picture gives a lively idea of the costume and 

^ This effigy is in white marble, and represents the knight in 
complete armor. Near him lies the effigy of his wife, and on 
her tomb is the following inscription, which, if really composed 



Stratford-on-Avon 261 

manners of the time. Sir Thomas is dressed in ruff and 
doublet, white shoes with roses in them, and has a peaked 
yellow, or as Master Slender would say, " a cane-colored 
beard." His lady is seated on the opposite side of the 
picture, in wide ruff and long stomacher, and the children 5 
have a most venerable stiffness and formality of dress. 
Hounds and spaniels are mingled in the family group; 
a hawk is seated on his perch in the foreground, and one 
of the children holds a bow — all intimating the knight's 
skill in hunting, hawking, and archery, so indispensable 10 
to an accomplished gentleman in those days.^ 

by her husband, places him quite above the intellectual level 
of Master Shallow: 

" Here lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sir Thomas Lucy of 
Charlecot in ye county of Warwick, Knight, Daughter and heir 
of Thomas Acton of Sutton in ye county of Worcester Esquire 
who departed out of this wretched world to her heavenly king- 
dom ye 10 day of February in ye yeare of our Lord God 1595 
and of her age 60 and three. All the time of her lyfe a true 
and faythful servant of her good God, never detected of any 
cryme or vice. In religion most sounde, in love to her husband 
most faythful and true. In friendship most constant; to what in 
trust was committed unto her most secret. In wisdom ex- 
celling. In governing of her house, bringing up of youth in ye 
fear of God that did converse with her moste rare and singular. 
A great maintayner of hospitality. Greatly esteemed of her bet- 
ters; misliked of none unless of the envyous. When all is 
spoken that can be saide a woman so garnished with virtue as 
not to be bettered and hardly to be equalled by any. As shee 
lived most virtuously so shee died most Godly. Set downe by 
him yt best did knowe what hath byn written to be true. 

Thomas Lucye." 

^ Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time, 
observes: "His housekeeping is seen much in the different 
families of dogs and serving-men attendant on their ken- 
nels; and the deepness of their throats is the depth of his dis- 
course. A hawk he esteems the true burden of nobility, and is 
exceedingly ambitious to seem delighted with the sport, and 



262 The Sketch Book 

I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the 
hall had disappeared ; for I had hoped to meet with the 
stately elbow-chair of carved oak in which the country 
squire of former days was wont to sway the scepter of 
5 empire over his rural domains, and in which it might 
he presumed the redoubted Sir Thomas sat enthroned in 
awful state when the recreant Shakespeare was brought 
before him. As I like to deck out pictures for my own 
entertainment, I pleased myself with the idea that this 

10 very hall had been the scene of the unlucky bard's exam- 
ination on the morning after his captivity in the lodge. 
I fancied to myself the rural potentate surrounded by 
his body-guard of butler, pages, and blue-coated serving- 
men, with their badges; while the luckless culprit was 

15 brought in, forlorn and chopfallen, in the custody of 
gamekeepers, huntsmen, and whippers-in, and followed 
by a rabble rout of country clowns. I fancied bright 
faces of curious housemaids peeping from the half-opened 
doors, while from the gallery the fair daughters of the 

20 knight leaned gracefully forward, eyeing the youthful 
prisoner with that pity " that dwells in womanhood." 
Who would have thought that this poor varlet, thus 
trembling before the brief authority of a country squire, 
and the sport of rustic boors, was soon to become the 

25 delight of princes, the theme of all tongues and ages, 
the dictator to the human mind, and was to confer im- 
m.ortality on his oppressor by a caricature and a lampoon ! 

have his fist gloved with his jesses." And Gilpin, in his de- 
scription of a Mr. Hastings, remarks: "He kept all sorts of 
hounds that run buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger; and had 
hawks of all kinds, both long and short winged. His great hall 
was commonly strewed with marrow-bones, and full of hawk 
perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers. On a broad hearth, 
paved with brick, lay some of the choicest terriers, hounds, and 
' spaniels." 



Stratford-on-Avon 263 

I was now Invited by the butler to walk into the gar- 
den, and I felt inclined to visit the orchard and arbor 
where the justice treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin 
Silence " to a last year's pippin " of his own grafting, 
with a "dish of caraways"; but I had already spent so 5 
much of the day in my ramblings that I was obliged to 
give up any further investigations. When about to take 
my leave, I was gratified by the civil entreaties of the 
housekeeper and butler that I would take some refresh- 
ment — an instance of good old hospitality which, I grieve 10 
to say, we castle-hunters seldom meet with in modern days. 
I make no doubt it is a virtue which the present represent- 
ative of the Lucys inherits from his ancestors; for Shake- 
speare, even in his caricature, makes Justice Shallow im- 
portunate In this respect, as witness his pressing Instances 15 
to Falstaff. 

" By cock and pye, sir, you shall not away to-night. ... I 
will not excuse you; you shall not be excused; excuses shall 
not be admitted; there is no excuse shall serve; you shall not 
be excused. . . . Some pigeons, Davy; a couple of short- 20 
legged hens; a joint of mutton; and any pretty little tiny kick- 
shaws, tell William Cook." 

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My 
mind had become so completely possessed by the imag- 
inary scenes and characters connected with it that I 25 
seemed to be actually living among them. Everything 
brought them as It were before my eyes; and as the door 
of the dining-room opened, I almost expected to hear the 
feeble voice of Master Silence quavering forth his favor- 
ite ditty: 30 

'T is merry in hall, when beards wag all. 
And welcome merry Shrove-tide! 



264 The Sketch Book 

On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the 
singular gift of the poet ; to be able thus to spread the 
magic of his mind over the very face of nature, to give 
to things and places a charm and character not their 

5 own, and to turn this " working-day world " into a per- 
fect fairy-land. He is indeed the true enchanter, whose 
spell operates, not upon the senses, but upon the imagi- 
nation and the heart. Under the wizard influence of 
Shakespeare I had been walking all day in a complete 

10 delusion. I had surveyed the landscape through the 
prism of poetry which tinged every object with the hues 
of the rainbow. I had been surrounded with fancied 
beings, with mere airy nothings conjured up by poetic 
power, yet which to me had all the charm of reality. 

15 I had heard Jaques soliloquize beneath his oak, had be- 
held the fair Rosalind and her companion adventuring 
through the woodlands, and above all had been once more 
present in spirit with fat Jack Falstaff and his con- 
temporaries, from the august Justice Shallow down to the 

20 gentle Master Slender and the sweet Anne Page. Ten 
thousand honors and blessings on the bard who has thus 
gilded the dull realities of life with innocent illusions, 
who has spread exquisite and unbought pleasures in my 
checkered path, and beguiled my spirit in many a lonely 

25 hour with all the cordial and cheerful sympathies of social 
life! 

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, 
I paused to contemplate the distant church in which the 
poet lies buried, and could not but exult in the maledic- 

30 tion which has kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet 
and hallowed vaults. What honor could his name have 
derived from being mingled in dusty companionship with 
the epitaphs and escutcheons and venal eulogiums of a 
titled multitude? What would a crowded corner in 



Stratford-on-Avon 265 

Westminster Abbe}' have been, compared with this rev- 
erend pile which seems to stand in beautiful loneliness 
as his sole mausoleum ! The solicitude about the grave 
may be but the offspring of an overwrought sensibility; 
but human nature is made up of foibles and prejudices, 5 
and its best and tenderest affections are mingled with 
these factitious feelings. He who has sought renown about 
the world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly favor, 
will find after all that there is no love, no admiration, 
no applause so sweet to the soul as that which springs up 10 
in his native place. It is there that he seeks to be gath- 
ered in peace and honor among his kindred and his early 
friends. And when the weary heart and failing head 
begin to warn him that the evening of life is drawing on, 
he turns as fondly as does the infant to the mother's arms, 15 
to sink to sleep in the bosom of the scene of his child- 
hood. 

How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful 
bard when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful 
w^orld, he cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home, 20 
could he have foreseen that before many years he should 
return to it covered with renown ; that his name should 
become the boast and glory of his native place ; that his 
ashes should be religiously guarded as its most precious 
treasure; and that its lessening spire, on w^hich his eyes 25 
were fixed in tearful contemplation, should one day become 
the beacon, towering amidst the gentle landscape, to 
guide the literary pilgrim of every nation to his tomb ! 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 

" I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's cabin 
hungry, and he gave him not to eat ; if ever he came cold and 
naked, and he clothed him not." 

Speech of an Indian Chief. 

There is something in the character and habits of 
the North American savage, taken in connection with 
the scenery over which he is accustomed to range, — 
its vast lakes, boundless forests, majestic rivers, and track- 

5 less plains, — that is to my mind wonderfully striking 
and sublime. He is formed for the wilderness, as the 
Arab is for the desert. His nature is stern, simple, 
and enduring; fitted to grapple with difficulties and to 
support privations. There seems but little soil in his 

10 heart for the support of the kindly virtues; and yet, if 
we would but take the trouble to penetrate through that 
proud stoicism and habitual taciturnity which lock up 
his character from casual observation, we should find 
him linked to his fellow-man of civilized life by more of 

15 those sympathies and affections than are usually ascribed 
to him. 

It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of 
America, in the early periods of colonization, to be doubly 
wronged by the white men: they have been dispossessed 

20 of their hereditary possessions by mercenary and fre- 
quently wanton warfare, and their characters have been 
traduced by bigoted and interested writers. The colo- 
nists often treated them like beasts of the forest, and the 

266 



Traits of Indian Character 267 

author has endeavored to justify him in his outrages. 
The former found it easier to exterminate than to civil- 
ize, the latter to vilify than to discriminate. The appel- 
lations of savage and pagan were deemed sufficient to 
sanction the hostilities of both ; and thus the poor wan- s 
derers of the forest were persecuted and defamed, not 
because they were guilty, but because they were ignorant. 

The rights of the savage have seldom been properly 
appreciated or respected by the white man. In peace he 
has too often been the dupe of artful traffic; in war he 10 
has been regarded as a ferocious animal whose life or 
death was a question of mere precaution and conven- 
ience. Man is cruelly wasteful of life when his own 
safety is endangered and he is sheltered by impunity, 
and little mercy is to be expected from him when he 15 
feels the sting of the reptile and is conscious of the power 
to destroy. 

The same prejudices which were indulged thus early 
exist in common circulation at the present day. Certain 
learned societies have, it is true, with laudable diligence 20 
endeavored to investigate and record the real characters 
and manners of the Indian tribes; the American govern- 
ment, too, has wisely and humanely exerted itself to 
inculcate a friendly and forbearing spirit towards them, 
and to protect them from fraud and injustice.^ The 25 
current opinion of the Indian character, however, Is too 
apt to be formed from the miserable hordes which infest 

^ The American government has been indefatigable in its ex- 
ertions to ameliorate the situation of the Indians, and to in- 
troduce among them the arts of civilization and civil and re- 
ligious knowledge. To protect them from the frauds of the 
white traders, no purchase of land from them by individuals is 
permitted; nor is any person allowed to receive lands from them 
as a present, without the express sanction of government. These 
precautions are strictly enforced. 



268 The Sketch Book 

the frontiers and hang on the skirts of the settlements. 
These are too commonly composed of degenerate beings, 
corrupted and enfeebled by the vices of society, without 
being benefited by its civilization. That proud independ- 
5 ence which formed the main pillar of savage virtue has 
been shaken down, and the whole moral fabric lies in 
ruins. Their spirits are humiliated and debased by a 
sense of inferiority, and their native courage cowed and 
daunted by the superior knowledge and power of their 

10 enlightened neighbors. Society has advanced upon them 
like one of those withering airs that will sometimes 
breed desolation over a whole region of fertility. It 
has enervated their strength, multiplied their diseases, 
and superinduced upon their original barbarity the low 

15 vices of artificial life. It has given them a thousand 
superfluous wants, whilst it has diminished their means 
of mere existence. It has driven before it the animals 
of the chase, who fly from the sound of the axe and the 
smoke of the settlement, and seek refuge in the depths 

20 of remoter forests and yet untrodden wilds. Thus do we 
too often find the Indians on our frontiers to be the mere 
wrecks and remnants of once powerful tribes, who have 
lingered in the vicinity of the settlements, and sunk into 
precarious and vagabond existence. Poverty, repining 

25 and hopeless poverty, a canker of the mind unknown in 
savage life, corrodes their spirits and blights every free 
and noble quality of their natures. They become drunken, 
indolent, feeble, thievish, and pusillanimous. They loiter 
like vagrants about the settlements, among spacious dwell- 

30 ings replete with elaborate comforts which only render 
them sensible of the comparative wretchedness of their 
own condition. Luxury spreads its ample board before 
their eyes, but they are excluded from the banquet. 
Plenty revels over the fields; but they are starving in 



Traits of Indian Character 269 

the midst of its abundance; the whole wilderness has 
blossomed into a garden, but they feel as reptiles that 
infest it. 

How different was their state while yet the undisputed 
lords of the soil! Their wants were few, and the means 5 
of gratification within their reach. They saw every one 
around them sharing the same lot, enduring the same 
hardships, feeding on the same aliments, arrayed in the 
same rude garments. No roof then rose but was open 
to the homeless stranger; no smoke curled among the 10 
trees but he was welcome to sit down by its fire and 
join the hunter at his repast. " For," says an old his- 
torian of New England, " their life is so void of care, 
and they are so loving also, that they make use of those 
things they enjoy as common goods, and are therein so 15 
compassionate that rather than one should starve through 
want, they would starve all ; thus they pass their time 
merrily, not regarding our pomp, but are better content 
with their own, which some men esteem so meanly of." 
Such were the Indians whilst in the pride and energy of 20 
their primitive natures; they resembled those wild plants 
which thrive best in the shades of the forest, but shrink 
from the hand of cultivation and perish beneath the in- 
fluence of the sun. 

In discussing the savage character, writers have been 25 
too prone to indulge in vulgar prejudice and passionate 
exaggeration, instead of the candid temper of true phi- 
losophy. They have not sufficiently considered the pe- 
culiar circumstances in which the Indians have been 
placed, and the peculiar principles under which they have 30 
been educated. No being acts more rigidly from rule than 
the Indian. His whole conduct is regulated according 
to some general maxims early implanted in his mind. The 
moral laws that govern him are, to be sure, but few — 



270 The Sketch Book 

but then he conforms to them all ; the white man abounds 
in laws of religion, morals, and manners — but how many 
does he violate? 

A frequent ground of accusation against the Indians 
5 is their disregard of treaties, and the treachery and wan- 
tonness with which, in time of apparent peace, they will 
suddenly fly to hostilities. The intercourse of the white 
men with the Indians, however, is too apt to be cold, 
distrustful, oppressive, and insulting. They seldom treat 

10 them with that confidence and frankness which are in- 
dispensable to real friendship, nor is sufficient caution 
observed not to offend against those feelings of pride or 
superstition which often prompt the Indian to hostility 
quicker than mere considerations of interest. The soli- 

15 tary savage feels silently, but acutely. His sensibilities 
are not diffused over so wide a surface as those of the 
white man, but they run in steadier and deeper chan- 
nels. His pride, his affections, his superstitions, are all 
directed towards fewer objects; but the wounds inflicted 

20 on them are proportionately severe, and furnish motives 
of hostility which we cannot sufficiently appreciate. 
Where a community is also limited in number, and forms 
one great patriarchal family, as in an Indian tribe, the 
injury of an individual is the injury of the whole, and the 

25 sentiment of vengeance is almost instantaneously diffused. 
One council fire is sufficient for the discussion and arrange- 
ment of a plan of hostilities. Here all the fighting men 
and sages assemble. Eloquence and superstition combine to 
inflame the minds of the warriors. The orator awakens 

30 their martial ardor, and they are wrought up to a kind 
of religious desperation by the visions of the prophet and 
the dreamer. 

An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, aris- 
ing from a motive peculiar to the Indian character, is 



Traits of Indian Character 271 

extant in an old recor.d of the early settlement of Massa- 
chusetts. The planters of Plymouth had defaced the monu- 
ments of the dead at Passonagessit, and had plundered the 
grave of the sachem's mother of some skins with which it 
had been decorated. The Indians are remarkable for the 5 
reverence which they entertain for the sepulchcrs of their 
kindred. Tribes that have passed generations exiled from 
the abodes of their ancestors, when by chance they have 
been traveling in the vicinity, have been known to turn 
aside from the highway, and guided by wonderfully ac- 10 
curate tradition have crossed the country for miles to 
some tumulus, buried perhaps in woods, where the bones of 
their tribe w^re anciently deposited, and there have passed 
hours in silent meditation. Influenced by this sublime and 
holy feeling, the sachem whose mother's tomb -had been vio- 15 
lated gathered his men together and addressed them in 
the follow^'ng beautifully simple and pathetic harangue — 
a curious specimen of Indian eloquence, and an affecting 
instance of filial piety in a savage: — 

" When last the glorious light of all the sky was under- 20 
neath this globe, and birds grew silent, I began to settle, 
as my custom is, to take repose. Before mine eyes were 
fast closed, methought I saw a vision, at which my spirit 
was much troubled; and trembling at that doleful sight, 
a spirit cried aloud : * Behold, my son, whom I have cher- 25 
ished, see the breasts that gave thee suck, the hands that 
lapped thee warm, and fed thee oft. Canst thou forget 
to take revenge of those wild people who have defaced 
my monument in a despiteful manner, disdaining our 
antiquities and honorable customs? See now the sa- 30 
chem's grave lies like the common people, defaced by 
an ignoble race. Thy mother doth complain, and im- 
plores thy aid against this thievish people who have 
newly intruded on our land. If this be suffered, I shall 



272 The Sketch Book 

not rest quiet in mj^ everlasting habitation.' This said, 
the spirit vanished, and I, all in a sweat, not able scarce 
to speak, began to get some strength and recollect my 
spirits that were fled, and determined to demand your 

5 counsel and assistance." 

I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it tends 
to show how these sudden acts of hostility, which have 
been attributed to caprice and perfidy, may often arise 
from deep and generous motives which our inattention 

10 to Indian character and customs prevents our properly 
appreciating. 

Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians 
is their barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin 
partly in policy and partly in superstition. The tribes, 

15 though sometimes called nations, were never so formi- 
dable in their numbers but that the loss of several war- 
riors was sensibly felt. This was particularly the case 
when they had frequently been engaged in warfare; and 
many an instance occurs in Indian history, where a tribe 

20 that had long been formidable to its neighbors has been 
broken up and driven away by the capture and massacre 
of its principal fighting men. There was a strong tempta- 
tion, therefore, to the victor to be merciless; not so much 
to gratify any cruel revenge, as to provide for future 

25 security. The Indians had also the superstitious belief, 
frequent among barbarous nations and prevalent also 
among the ancients, that the manes of their friends who 
had fallen in battle were soothed by the blood of the 
captives. The prisoners, however, who are not thus sacri- 

30 ficed, are adopted into their families in the place of the 
slain, and are treated with the confidence and affec- 
tion of relatives and friends; nay, so hospitable and 
tender is their entertainment, that when the alternative 
is offered them, they will often prefer to remain with 



Traits of Indian Character 273 

their adopted brethren rather than return to the home 
and the friends of their youth. 

The cruelty of the Indians towards their prisoners has 
been heightened since the colonization of the whites. 
What w^as formerly a compliance with policy and super- 5 
stition has been exasperated into a gratification of venge- 
ance. They cannot but be sensible that the white men 
are the usurpers of their ancient dominion, the cause of 
their degradation, and the gradual destroyers of their 
race. They go forth to battle smarting with injuries 10 
and indignities which they have individually suffered, and 
they are driven to madness and despair by the wide- 
spreading desolation and the overwhelming ruin of Euro- 
pean warfare. The whites have too frequently set them 
an example of violence, by burning their villages and 15 
laying waste their slender means of subsistence; and j^et 
they wonder that savages do not show moderation and 
magnanimity towards those who have left them nothing 
but mere existence and wretchedness. 

We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly and 20 
treacherous, because they use stratagem in warfare in 
preference to open force; but in this they are fully jus- 
tified by their rude code of honor. They are early taught 
that stratagem is praiseworthy. The bravest warrior 
thinks it no disgrace to lurk in silence and take every ad- 25 
vantage of his foe; he triumphs in the superior craft 
and sagacity by which he has been enabled to surprise 
and destroy an enemy. Indeed, man is naturally more 
prone to subtilty than open valor, owing to his physical 
weakness in comparison with other animals. They are 30 
endowed with natural weapons of defence — with horns, 
with tusks, with hoofs, and talons ; but man has to depend 
on his superior sagacity. In all his encounters with these, 
his proper enemies, he resorts to stratagem; and when 



274 The Sketch Book 

he perversely turns his hostility against his fellow-man, he 
at first continues the same subtle mode of warfare. 

The natural principle of war is to do the most harm to 
our enemy with the least harm to ourselves; and this, of 

5 course, is to be effected by stratagem. That chivalrous 
courage which induces us to despise the suggestions of 
prudence and to rush in the face of certain danger is the 
offspring of society, and produced by education. It is 
honorable, because it is in fact the triumph of lofty sen- 

10 timent over an instinctive repugnance to pain, and over 
those yearnings after personal ease and security which 
society has condemned as ignoble. It is kept alive by 
pride and the fear of shame, and thus the dread of real 
evil is overcome by the superior dread of an evil which 

15 exists but in the imagination. It has been cherished and 
stimulated also by various means. It has been the theme 
of spirit-stirring song and chivalrous story. The poet 
and minstrel have delighted to shed round it the splendors 
of fiction, and even the historian has forgotten the sober 

20 gravity of narration, and broken forth into enthusiasm 
and rhapsody in its praise. Triumphs and gorgeous 
pageants have been its reward ; monuments on which art 
has exhausted its skill, and opulence its treasures, have 
been erected to perpetuate a nation's gratitude and admira- 

25 tion. Thus artificially excited, courage has risen to an 
extraordinary and factitious degree of heroism ; and arrayed 
in all the glorious " pomp and circumstance of war," this 
turbulent quality has even been able to eclipse many of 
those quiet but invaluable virtues which silently ennoble 

30 the human character, and swell the tide of human hap- 
piness. 

But if courage intrinsically consists in the defiance of 
danger and pain, the life of the Indian is a continual 
exhibition of it. He lives in a state of perpetual hostil- 



Traits of Indian Character 275 

ity and risk. Peril and adventure are congenial to his 
nature, or rather seem necessary to arouse his faculties 
and to give an interest to his existence. Surrounded by 
hostile tribes whose mode of warfare is by ambush and 
surprisal, he is always prepared for fight, and lives with 5 
his weapons in his hands. As the ship careers in fear- 
ful singleness through the solitudes of ocean, as the bird 
mingles among clouds and storms, and wings its way, a 
mere speck, across the pathless fields of air, so the Indian 
holds his course, silent, solitary, but undaunted, through 10 
the boundless bosom of the wilderness. His expeditions 
may vie in distance and danger with the pilgrimage of 
the devotee or the crusade of the knight-errant. He 
traverses vast forests, exposed to the hazards of lonely 
sickness, of lurking enemies, and pining famine. Stormy 15 
lakes, those great inland seas, are no obstacles to his 
wanderings; in his light canoe of bark he sports like a 
feather on their waves, and darts with the swiftness of 
an arrow down the roaring rapids of the rivers. His 
very subsistence is snatched from the midst of toil and 20 
peril. He gains his food by the hardships and dangers 
of the chase; he wraps himself in the spoils of the bear, 
the panther, and the buffalo, and sleeps among the thunders 
of the cataract. 

No hero of ancient or modern days can surpass the 25 
Indian in his lofty contempt of death and the fortitude 
with which he sustains its crudest infliction. Indeed, 
we here behold him rising superior to the white man in 
consequence of his peculiar education. The latter rushes 
to glorious death at the cannon's mouth ; the former 30 
calmly contemplates its approach, and triumphantly en- 
dures it, amidst the varied torments of surrounding foes 
and the protracted agonies of fire. He even takes a pride 
in taunting his persecutors and provoking their ingenuity 



276 The Sketch Book 

of torture; and as the devouring flames prey on his very 
vitals and the flesh shrinks from the sinews, he raises his 
last song of triumph, breathing the defiance of an uncon- 
quered heart and invoking the spirits of his fathers to 
5 witness that he dies without a groan. 

Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the early his- 
torians have overshadowed the characters of the unfortu- 
nate natives, some bright gleams occasionally break through 
which throw a degree of melancholy luster on their mem- 

10 ories. Facts are occasionally to be met with in the rude 
annals of the eastern provinces, which, though recorded 
with the coloring of prejudice and bigotry, yet speak for 
themselves, and will be dwelt on with applause and sym- 
pathy when prejudice shall have passed away. 

15 In one of the homely narratives of the Indian wars in 
New England, there is a touching account of the deso- 
lation carried into the tribe of the Pequod Indians. 
Humanity shrinks from the cold-blooded detail of indis- 
criminate butchery. In one place we read of the sur- 

20 prisal of an Indian fort in the night, when the wigw^ams 
were wrapped in flames, and the miserable inhabitants 
shot down and slain in attempting to escape, " all being 
despatched and ended in the course of an hour." After 
a series of similar transactions, *' our soldiers," as the his- 

25 torian piously observes, " being resolved by God's assist- 
ance to make a final destruction of them," the unhappy 
savages being hunted from their homes and fortresses and 
pursued with fire and sword, a scanty but gallant band, 
the sad remnant of the Pequod warriors, with their wives 

30 and children, took refuge in a swamp. 

Burning with indignation and rendered sullen by de- 
spair, with hearts bursting with grief at the destruction 
of their tribe and spirits galled and sore at the fancied 
ignominy of their defeat, they refused to ask their lives at 



Traits of Indian Character 277 

the hands of an insulting foe, and preferred death to sub- 
mission. 

As the night drew on they were surrounded in their 
dismal retreat so as to render escape impracticable. Thus 
situated, their enemy " plied them with shot all the time, 5 
by which means many were killed and buried in the mire." 
In the darkness and fog that preceded the dawn of day 
some few broke through the besiegers and escaped into 
the woods; ''the rest were left to the conquerors, of 
which many were killed In the swamp, like sullen dogs 10 
who would rather, in their self-willedness and madness, 
sit still and be shot through or cut to pieces," than implore 
for mercy. When the day broke upon this handful of 
forlorn but dauntless spirits, the soldiers, we are told, 
entering the swamp, " saw several heaps of them sitting 15 
close together, upon whom they discharged their pieces 
laden with ten or twelve pistol bullets at a time, putting 
the muzzles of the pieces under the boughs within a few 
yards of them ; so as, besides those that were found dead, 
many more were killed and sunk into the mire, and never 20 
were minded more by friend or foe." 

Can any one read this plain unvarnished tale without 
admiring the stern resolution, the unbending pride, the 
loftiness of spirit that seemed to nerve the hearts of 
these self-taught heroes and to raise them above the in- 25 
stinctive feelings of human nature? When the Gauls laid 
waste the city of Rome, they found the senators clothed 
in their robes and seated with stern tranquillity in their 
curule chairs; in this manner they suffered death without 
resistance or even supplication. Such conduct was, in 30 
them, applauded as noble and magnanimous; In the hapless 
Indian it was reviled as obstinate and sullen! How truly 
are we the dupes of show and circumstance! How differ- 
ent is virtue clothed In purple and enthroned In state 



278 The Sketch Book 

from virtue naked and destitute and perishing obscurely 
in a wilderness! 

But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pictures. The 
Eastern tribes have long since disappeared; the forests 

5 that sheltered them have been laid low, and scarce any 
traces remain of them in the thickly settled states of New 
England, excepting here and there the Indian name of a 
village or a stream. And such must, sooner or later, be 
the fate of those other tribes which skirt the frontiers, 

10 and have occasionally been inveigled from their forests to 
mingle in the wars of white men. In a little while, and 
they will go the way that their brethren have gone before. 
The few hordes which still linger about the shores of 
Huron and Superior and the tributary streams of the 

15 Mississippi will share the fate of those tribes that once 
spread over Massachusetts and Connecticut and lorded 
It along the proud banks of the Hudson, of that gigantic 
race said to have existed on the borders of the Susquehanna, 
and of those various nations that flourished about the 

20 Potomac and the Rappahannock, and that peopled the 
forests of the vast valley of Shenandoah. They will vanish 
like a vapor from the face of the earth, their very history 
will be lost in forgetfulness, and *' the places that now 
know them will know them no more forever." Or if, per- 

25 chance, some dubious memorial of them should survive, 
it may be in the romantic dreams of the poet, to people 
in imagination his glades and groves, like the fauns and 
satyrs and sylvan deities of antiquity. But should he 
venture upon the dark story of their wrongs and wretched- 

30 ness ; should he tell how they were invaded, corrupted, 
despoiled, driven from their native abodes and the sep- 
ulchers of their fathers; hunted like wild beasts about 
the earth, and sent down with violence and butchery to 
the grave, posterity will either turn with horror and in- 



Traits of Indian Character 279 

credulity from the tale, or blush with indignation at the 
inhumanity of their forefathers. ** We are driven back," 
said an old warrior, ** until w^e can retreat no farther; 
our hatchets are broken, our bows are snapped, our fires 
are nearly extinguished ; a little longer, and the white 5 
man will cease to persecute us — for we shall cease to 
exist! " 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 

AN INDIAN MEMOIR 

As monumental bronze unchanged his look; 
A soul that pity touch'd but never shook; 
Train'd from his tree-rock'd cradle to his bier, 
The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook 
Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear — 
A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. 

Campbell. 

It is to be regretted that those early writers who 
treated of the discovery and settlement of America have 
not given us more particular and candid accounts of the 
remarkable characters that flourished in savage life. The 

5 scanty anecdotes which have reached us are full of pecu- 
liarity and interest; they furnish us with nearer glimpses 
of human nature, and show what man is in a comparatively 
primitive state and what he owes to civilization. There 
is something of the charm of discovery in lighting upon 

10 these wild and unexplored tracts of human nature; in 
witnessing, as it were, the native growth of moral senti- 
ment, and perceiving those generous and romantic quali- 
ties which have been artificially cultivated by society, 
vegetating in spontaneous hardihood and rude magnifi- 

15 cence. 

In civilized life, where the happiness, and indeed almost 
the existence of man, depends so much upon the opinion 
of his fellow-men, he is constantly acting a studied part. 
The bold and peculiar traits of native character are re- 

280 



Philip of Pokanoket 281 

fined away or softened down by the leveling influence of 
what is termed good breeding; and he practises so many 
petty deceptions and affects so many generous sentiments 
for the purposes of popularity that it is difficult to dis- 
tinguish his real from his artificial character. The Indian, 5 
on the contrary, free from the restraints and refinements 
of polished life, and in a great degree a solitary and inde- 
pendent being, obeys the impulses of his inclination or the 
dictates of his judgment; and thus the attributes of his 
nature, being freely indulged, grow singly great and strik- 10 
ing. Society is like a lawn, where every roughness is 
smoothed, every bramble eradicated, and where the eye is 
delighted by the smiling verdure of a velvet surface; he, 
however, who would study nature in its wildness and 
variety must plunge into the forest, must explore the 15 
glen, must stem the torrent and dare the precipice. 

These reflections arose on casually looking through a 
volume of early colonial history wherein are recorded, 
with great bitterness, the outrages of the Indians and 
their wars with the settlers of New England. It is pain- 20 
ful to perceive even from these partial narratives how the 
footsteps of civilization may be traced in the blood of the 
aborigines, how easily the colonists were moved to hos- 
tility by the lust of conquest, how merciless and extermi- 
nating was their warfare. The imagination shrinks at 25 
the idea how many intellectual beings were hunted from 
the earth, how many brave and noble hearts of nature's 
sterling coinage were broken down and trampled in the 
dust! 

Such was the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, an Indian 30 
warrior whose name was once a terror throughout Mas- 
sachusetts and Connecticut. He was the most distin- 
guished of a number of contemporary sachems who 
reigned over the Pequods, the Narragansetts, the Wam- 



282 The Sketch Book 

panoags, and the other Eastern tribes, at the time of 
the first settlement of New England ; a band of native 
untaught heroes who made the most generous struggle 
of which human nature is capable, fighting to the last 
5 gasp in the cause of their country, without a hope of 
victory or a thought of renown. Worthy of an age of 
poetry, and fit subjects for local story and romantic fic- 
tion, they have left scarcely any authentic traces on the 
page of history, but stalk like gigantic shadows in the dim 

10 twilight of tradition.^ 

When the Pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called 
by their descendants, first took refuge on the shores of 
the New World from the religious persecutions of the 
Old, their situation was to the last degree gloomy and 

15 disheartening. Few in number, and that number rapidly 
perishing away through sickness and hardships, surrounded 
by a howling wilderness and savage tribes, exposed to 
the rigors of an almost arctic winter and the vicissitudes 
of an ever-shifting climate, their minds were filled with 

20 doleful forebodings, and nothing preserved them from 
sinking into despondency but the strong excitement of re- 
ligious enthusiasm. In this forlorn situation they were 
visited by Massasoit, chief sagamore of the Wampanoags, 
a powerful chief who reigned over a great extent of 

25 country. Instead of taking advantage of the scanty num- 
ber of the strangers and expelling them from his terri- 
tories, into which they had intruded, he seemed at once 
to conceive for them a generous friendship, and extended 
towards them the rites of primitive hospitality. He came 

30 early in the spring to their settlement of New Plymouth, 
attended by a mere handful of followers, entered into a 

^ While correcting the proof sheets of this article, the author 
is informed that a celebrated English poet has nearly finished 
an heroic poem on the story of Philip of Pokanoket, 



Philip of Pokanoket 283 

solemn league of peace and amity, sold them a portion of 
the soil, and promised to secure for them the good-will of 
his savage allies. Whatever may be said of Indian perfidy, 
it is certain that the integrity and good faith of Massasoit 
have never been impeached. He continued a firm and 5 
magnanimous friend of the white men, suffering them to 
extend their possessions and to strengthen themselves 
in the land, and betraying no jealousy of their increasing 
power and prosperity. Shortly before his death he came 
once more to New Plymouth, with his son Alexander, for 10 
the purpose of renewing the covenant of peace and of 
securing it to his posterity. 

At this conference he endeavored to protect the religion 
of his forefathers from the encroaching zeal of the mis- 
sionaries, and stipulated that no further attempt should be 15 
made to draw^ off his people from their ancient faith; 
but finding the English obstinately opposed to any such 
condition, he mildly relinquished the demand. Almost 
the last act of his life was to bring his two sons, Alex- 
ander and Philip (as they had been named by the Eng- 20 
lish), to the residence of a principal settler, recommend- 
ing mutual kindness and confidence, and entreating that 
the same love and amity which had existed between the 
white men and himself might be continued afterwards 
with his children. The good old sachem died in peace 25 
and was happily gathered to his fathers before sorrow 
came upon his tribe ; his children remained behind to 
experience the ingratitude of white men. 

His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He was 
of a quick and impetuous temper, and proudly tenacious 30 
of his hereditary rights and dignity. The intrusive policy 
and dictatorial conduct of the strangers excited his indig- 
nation, and he beheld with uneasiness their exterminating 
wars with the neighboring tribes. He was doomed soon 



2 84 The Sketch Book 

to incur their hostility, being accused of plotting with the 
Narragansetts to rise against the English and drive them 
from the land. It is impossible to say whether this accusa- 
tion was warranted by facts or was grounded on mere 
5 suspicion. It is evident, however, by the violent and over- 
bearing measures of the settlers, that they had by this time 
begun to feel conscious of the rapid increase of their 
power, and to grow harsh and inconsiderate in their treat- 
ment of the natives. They despatched an armed force to 

10 seize upon Alexander and to bring him before their courts. 
He was traced to his woodland haunts and surprised at a 
hunting house, where he was reposing with a band of his 
followers, unarmed, after the toils of the chase. The sud- 
denness of his arrest and the outrage offered to his sov- 

15 ereign dignity so preyed upon the irascible feelings of this 
proud savage as to throw him into a raging fever. He 
was permitted to return home on condition of sending 
his son as a pledge for his reappearance; but the blow he 
had received was fatal, and before he had reachd his home 

20 he fell a victim to the agonies of a wounded spirit. 

The successor of Alexander was Metacomet, or King 
Philip, as he was called by the settlers on account of his 
lofty spirit and ambitious temper. These, together with 
his well-known energy and enterprise, had rendered him 

25 an object of great jealousy and apprehension, and he 
was accused of having always cherished a secret and 
implacable hostility towards the whites. Such may very 
probably and very naturally have been the case. He 
considered them as originally but mere intruders into 

30 the country, who had presumed upon indulgence and were 
extending an influence baneful to savage life. He saw 
the whole race of his countrymen melting before them 
from the face of the earth, their territories slipping from 
their hands, and their tribes becoming feeble, scattered. 



Philip of Pokanoket 285 

and dependent. It may be said that the soil was origi- 
nally purchased by the settlers; but who does not know ' 
the nature of Indian purchases in the early periods of 
colonization ? The Europeans always made thrifty bar- 
gains through their superior adroitness in traffic, and they 5 
gained vast accessions of territory by easily provoked 
hostilities. An uncultivated savage is never a nice inquirer 
into the refinements of law by which an injury may be 
gradually and legally inflicted. Leading facts are all by 
which he judges; and it was enough for Philip to know 10 
that before the intrusion of the Europeans his country- 
men were lords of the soil, and that now they were becom- 
ing vagabonds in the land of their fathers. 

But whatever may have been his feelings of general 
hostility, and his particular indignation at the treatment 15 
of his brother, he suppressed them for the present, re- 
newed the contract with the settlers, and resided peace- 
ably for many years at Pokanoket, or, as it was called 
by the English, Mount Hope,^ the ancient seat of do- 
minion of his tribe. Suspicions, however, which were at 20 
first but vague and indefinite, began to acquire form and 
substance; and he was at length charged with attempting 
to instigate the various Eastern tribes to rise at once, 
and by a simultaneous effort to throw off the yoke of 
their oppressors. It is diflScult at this distant period 25 
to assign the proper credit due to these early accusations 
against the Indians. There was a proneness to suspicion 
and an aptness to acts of violence on the part of the 
whites that gave weight and importance to every idle 
tale. Informers abounded where talebearing met with 3c 
countenance and reward, and the sword was readily 
unsheathed when its success was certain and it carved 
out em^pire. 

^ Now Bristol, Rhode Island. 



2 86 The Sketch Book 

The only positive evidence on record against Philip 
is the accusation of one Sausaman, a renegado Indian, 
whose natural cunning had been quickened by a partial 
education which he had received among the settlers. 
5 He changed his faith and his allegiance two or three times 
with a facility that evinced the looseness of his principles. 
He had acted for some time as Philip's confidential sec- 
retary and counselor, and had enjoyed his bounty and 
protection. Finding, however, that the clouds of adversity 

10 were gathering round his patron, he abandoned his service 
and went over to the whites; and in order to gain their 
favor charged his former benefactor with plotting against 
their safety. A rigorous investigation took place. Philip 
and several of his subjects submitted to be examined, but 

15 nothing was proved against them. The settlers, however, 
had now gone too far to retract; they had previously 
determined that Philip was a dangerous neighbor, they 
had publicly evinced their distrust, and had done enough 
to insure his hostility; according, therefore, to the usual 

20 mode of reasoning in these cases, his destruction had 
become necessary to their securit)^ Sausaman, the treach- 
erous informer, was shortly afterwards found dead in a 
pond, having fallen a victim to the vengeance of his tribe. 
Three Indians, one of whom was a friend and counselor 

25 of Philip, were apprehended and tried, and, on the testi- 
mony of one very questionable witness, were condemned 
and executed as murderers. 

This treatment of his subjects and ignominious pun- 
ishment of his friend outraged the pride and exasperated 

30 the passions of Philip. The bolt which had fallen thus 
at his very feet awakened him to the gathering storm, 
and he determined to trust himself no longer in the power 
of the white men. The fate of his insulted and broken- 
hearted brother still rankled in his mind ; and he had a 



Philip of Pokanoket 287 

further warning in the tragical story of Miantonlmo, a 
great sachem of the Narragansetts, who, after manfully 
facing his accusers before a tribunal of the colonists, 
exculpating himself from a charge of conspiracy and re- 
ceiving assurances of amity, had been perfidiously des- 5 
patched at their instigation. Philip, therefore, gathered 
his fighting men about him, persuaded all strangers that 
he could to join his cause, sent the women and children 
to the Narragansetts for safety, and wherever he appeared 
was continually surrounded by armed warriors. 10 

When the two parties were thus In a state of distrust 
and irritation, the least spark was sufficient to set them 
in a flame. The Indians, having weapons in their hands, 
grew mischievous and committed various petty depreda- 
tions. In one of their maraudings a warrior was fired 15 
on and killed by a settler. This was the signal for open 
hostilities; the Indians pressed to revenge the death of 
their comrade, and the alarm of war resounded through 
the Plymiouth colony. 

In the early chronicles of these dark and melancholy 20 
times we meet with many Indications of the diseased 
state of the public mind. The gloom of religious ab- 
straction, and the wildness of their situation among 
trackless forests and savage tribes, had disposed the colo- 
nists to superstitious fancies, and had filled their Imagina- 25 
tions with the frightful chimeras of witchcraft and 
spectrology. They were much given also to a belief in 
omens. The troubles with Philip and his Indians were 
preceded, we are told, by a variety of those awful warn- 
ings which forerun great and public calamities. The 30 
perfect form of an Indian bow appeared In the air at 
New^ Plymouth, which was looked upon by the Inhabitants 
as a " prodigious apparition." At Hadley, Northampton, 
and other towns in their neighborhood '' was heard the 



288 The Sketch Book 

report of a great piece of ordnance, with a shaking of the 
earth and a considerable echo." ^ Others were alarmed on 
a still, sunshiny morning by the discharge of guns and 
muskets, bullets seemed to whistle past them, and the 

5 noise of drums resounded in the air, seeming to pass 
away to the westward ; others fancied that they heard 
the galloping of horses over their head; and certain 
monstrous births which took place about the time filled 
the superstitious in some towns with doleful forebodings. 

10 Many of these portentous sights and sounds may be 
ascribed to natural phenomena — to the northern lights 
which occur vividly in those latitudes, the meteors which 
explode in the air, the casual rushing of a blast through 
the top branches of the forest, the crash of fallen trees 

15 or disrupted rocks, and to those other uncouth sounds 
and echoes which will sometimes strike the ear so strangely 
amidst the profound stillness of woodland solitudes. 
These may have startled some melancholy imaginations, 
may have been exaggerated by the love of the marvelous, 

20 and listened to with that avidity with which we devour 
whatever is fearful and mysterious. The universal cur- 
rency of these superstitious fancies and the grave record 
made of them by one of the learned men of the day are 
strongly characteristic of the times. 

25 The nature of the contest that ensued was such as too 
often distinguishes the warfare between civilized men and 
savages. On the part of the whites it was conducted with 
superior skill and success, but with a wastefulness of the 
blood and a disregard of the natural rights of their an- 

30 tagonists ; on the part of the Indians it was waged with 
the desperation of men fearless of death, and who had noth- 
ing to expect from peace but humiliation, dependence, and 
decay. 

^The Rev. Increase Mather's History. 



Philip of Pokanoket 289 

The events of the war are transmitted to us by a 
worthy clergyman of the time, who dwells with horror 
and indignation on every hostile act of the Indians, how- 
ever justifiable, whilst he mentions with applause the most 
sanguinary atrocities of the whites. Philip is reviled as 5 
a murderer and a traitor, without considering that he 
was a true-born prince gallantly fighting at the head 
of his subjects to avenge the w^rongs of his family, 
to retrieve the tottering power of his line, and to de- 
liver his native land from the oppression of usurping 10 
strangers. 

The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, if such 
had really been formed, was w^orthy of a capacious mind, 
and, had it not been prematurely discovered, might have 
been overwhelming in its consequences. The war that 15 
actually broke out was but a war of detail, a mere suc- 
cession of casual exploits and unconnected enterprises. 
Still it sets forth the military genius and daring prowess 
of Philip; and wherever, in the prejudiced and passion- 
ate narrations that have been given of it, we can arrive 20 
at simple facts, we find him displaying a vigorous mind, 
a fertility of expedients, a contempt of suffering and hard- 
ship, and an unconquerable resolution that command our 
sympathy and applause. 

Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, he 25 
threw himself into the depths of those vast and trackless 
forests that skirted the settlements and were almost im- 
pervious to anything but a wild beast or an Indian. 
Here he gathered together his forces, like the storm accu- 
mulating its stores of mischief in the bosom of the thunder 30 
cloud, and would suddenly emerge at a time and place 
least expected, carrying havoc and dismay into the villages. 
There were now and then indications of these impending 
ravages that filled the minds of the colonists with b.wq 



igo The Sketch Book 

and apprehension. The report of a distant gun would 
perhaps be heard from the solitary woodland where there 
was known to be no white man; the cattle which had 
been wandering in the woods would sometimes return 
5 home wounded ; or an Indian or two would be seen lurk- 
ing about the skirts of the forests and suddenly disappear- 
ing, as the lightning will sometimes be seen playing silently 
about the edge of the cloud that is brewing up the 
tempest. 

10 Though sometimes pursued and even surrounded by 
the settlers, yet Philip as often escaped almost miracu- 
lously from their toils, and, plunging into the wilderness, 
would be lost to all search or inquiry until he again 
emerged at some far-distant quarter, laying the country 

15 desolate. Among his strongholds were the great swamps 
or morasses which extend in some parts of New England, 
composed of loose bogs of deep black mud, perplexed with 
thickets, brambles, rank weeds, the shattered and moulder- 
ing trunks of fallen trees, overshadowed by lugubrious 

20 hemlocks. The uncertain footing and the tangled mazes 
of these shaggy wilds rendered them almost impracticable 
to the white man, though the Indian could thrid their 
labyrinths with the agility of a deer. Into one of these, 
the great swamp of Pocasset Neck, was Philip once driven 

25 with a band of his followers. The English did not dare 
to pursue him, fearing to venture into these dark and 
frightful recesses where they might perish in fens and 
miry pits or be shot down by lurking foes. They therefore 
invested the entrance to the Neck and began to build a 

30 fort, with the thought of starving out the foe ; but Philip 
and his warriors wafted themselves on a raft over an 
arm of the sea, in the dead of the night, leaving the women 
and children behind, and escaped away to the westward, 
kindling the flames of war among the tribes of Massa- 



Philip of Pokanoket 291 

chusetts and the Nipmuck country, and threatening the 
colony of Connecticut. 

In this way Philip became a theme of universal appre- 
hension. The mystery in which he was enveloped exag- 
gerated his real terrors. He was an evil that walked in 5 
darkness, whose coming none could foresee, and against 
w^hich none knew when to be on the alert. The whole 
country abounded with rumors and alarms. Philip seemed 
almost possessed of ubiquity; for, in whatever part of 
the widely extended frontier an irruption from the forest 10 
took place, Philip was said to be its leader. Many super- 
stitious notions also were circulated concerning him. He 
was said to deal in necromancy and to be attended by an 
old Indian witch, or prophetess, whom he consulted and 
who assisted him by her charms and incantations. This 15 
indeed was frequently the case with Indian chiefs, either 
through their own credulity or to act upon that of their 
followers; and the influence of the prophet and dreamer 
over Indian superstition has been fully evidenced in recent 
instances of savage warfare. 20 

At the time that Philip effected his escape from Pocas- 
set his fortunes were in a desperate condition. His forces 
had been thinned by repeated fights and he had lost al- 
most the whole of his resources. In this time of adversity 
he found a faithful friend in Canonchet, chief sachem of 25 
all the Narragansetts. He was the son and heir of Mian- 
tonimo, the great sachem who, as already mentioned, after 
an honorable acquittal of the charge of conspiracy, had 
been privately put to death at the perfidious instigations 
of the settlers. '' He was the heir," says the old chronicler, 30 
"of all his father's pride and insolence, as well as of his 
malice towards the English " — he certainly was the heir 
of his insults and injuries, and the legitimate avenger 
of his murder. Though he had forborne to take an active 



292 The Sketch Book 

part in this hopeless war, yet he received Philip and his 
broken forces with open arms, and gave them the most 
generous countenance and support. This at once drew 
upon him the hostility of the English, and it was deter- 
5 mined to strike a signal blow that should involve both the 
sachems in one common ruin. A great force was there- 
fore gathered together from Massachusetts, Plymouth, and 
Connecticut, and was sent into the Narragansett country 
in the depth of winter, when the swamps, being frozen and 

10 leafless, could be traversed with comparative facility and 
w^ould no longer afford dark and impenetrable fastnesses 
to the Indians. 

Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had conveyed the 
greater part of his stores, together with the old, the 

15 infirm, the women and children of his tribe, to a strong 
fortress, where he and Philip had likewise drawn up the 
flower of their forces. This fortress, deemed by the 
Indians impregnable, was situated upon a rising mound, 
or kind of island, of five or six acres, in the midst of a 

20 swamp; it was constructed with a degree of judgment 
and skill vastly superior to what is usually displayed in 
Indian fortification, and indicative of the martial genius 
of these two chieftains. 

Guided by a renegado Indian, the English penetrated 

25 through December snows to this stronghold and came 
upon the garrison by surprise. The fight was fierce and 
tumultuous. The assailants were repulsed in their first 
attack, and several of their bravest officers were shot 
down in the act of storming the fortress, sword in hand. 

30 The assault was renewed with greater success. A lodg- 
ment was effected. The Indians were driven from one 
post to another. They disputed their ground inch by 
inch, fighting with the fury of despair. Most of their 
veterans were cut to pieces; and after a long and bloody 



Philip of Pokanoket 293 

battle, Philip and Canonchet, with a handful of surviv- 
ing warriors, retreated from the fort and took refuge in 
the thickets of the surrounding forest. 

The victors set fire to the wigwams and the fort, the 
whole was soon in a blaze; many of the old men, the 5 
women, and the children perished in the flames. This 
last outrage overcame even the stoicism of the savage. 
The neighboring woods resounded with the yells of rage 
and despair uttered by the fugitive warriors as they beheld 
the destruction of their dwellings and heard the agonizing 10 
cries of their wives and offspring. '' The burning of the 
wigwams," says a contemporary writer, " the shrieks and 
cries of the women and children, and the yelling of the 
warriors, exhibited a most horrible and affecting scene, 
so that it greatly moved some of the soldiers." The same 15 
writer cautiously adds: "They were in much doubt then, 
and afterwards seriously inquired whether burning their 
enemies alive could be consistent with humanity and the 
benevolent principles of the Gospel." ^ 

The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is 20 
worthy of particular mention ; the last scene of his life 
is one of the noblest instances on record of Indian 
magnanimity. 

Broken down in his pow^r and resources by this signal 
defeat, yet faithful to his ally and to the hapless cause 25 
which he had espoused, he rejected all overtures of peace 
offered on condition of betraying Philip and his followers, 
and declared that " he would fight it out to the last 
man rather than become a servant to the English." 
His home being destroyed, his country harassed and laid 30 
waste by the incursions of the conquerors, he was obliged 
to wander away to the banks of the Connecticut, where 
he formed a rallying point to the whole body of 
' MS. of the Rev. W. Ruggles. 



294 The Sketch Book 

Western Indians and laid waste several of the English 
settlements. 

Early in the spring he departed on a hazardous expe- 
dition, with only thirty chosen men, to penetrate to 
5 Seaconck, in the vicinity of Mount Hope, and to procure 
seed corn to plant for the sustenance of his troops. This 
little band of adventurers had passed safely through the 
Pequod country, and were in the center of the Narra- 
gansett, resting at some wigwams near Pawtucket River, 

10 when an alarm was given of an approaching enemy. 
Having but seven men by him at the time, Canonchet 
despatched two of them to the top of a neighboring hill 
to bring intelligence of the foe. 

Panic-struck by the appearance of a troop of English 

15 and Indians rapidly advancing, they fled in breathless 
terror past their chieftain without stopping to inform 
him of the danger. Canonchet sent another scout, who 
did the same. He then sent two more, one of whom, 
hurrying back in confusion and affright, told him that 

20 the whole British army was at hand. Canonchet saw 
there was no choice but immediate flight. He attempted 
to escape round the hill, but was perceived and hotly 
pursued by the hostile Indians and a few of the fleetest 
of the English. Finding the swiftest pursuer close upon 

25 his heels, he threw off, first his blanket, then his silver- 
laced coat and belt of peag, — by which his enemies knew 
him to be Canonchet and redoubled the eagerness of 
pursuit. 

At length, in dashing through the river, his foot slipped 

30 upon a stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his gun. This 
accident so struck him with despair that, as he after- 
wards confessed, " his heart and his bowels turned within 
him, and he became like a rotten stick, void of strength." 
To such a degree was he unnerved that, being seized 



Philip of Pokanoket 295 

by a Pequod Indian within a short distance of the river, 
h.e made no resistance, though a man of great vigor of 
body and boldness of heart. But on being made pris- 
oner the whole pride of his spirit arose within him, and 
from that moment we find, in the anecdotes given by 5 
his enemies, nothing but repeated flashes of elevated and 
prince-like heroism. Being questioned by one of the 
English who first came up with him, and who had not 
attained his twenty-second year, the proud-hearted war- 
rior, looking with lofty contempt upon his youthful 10 
countenance, replied: "You are a child — you cannot 
understand matters of war — let your brother or your 
chief come — him will I answer." 

Though repeated offers were made to him of his life, 
on condition of submitting with his nation to the Eng- 15 
lish, yet he rejected them with disdain and refused to 
send any proposals of the kind to the great body of his 
subjects, saying that he knew none of them would com- 
ply. Being reproached with his breach of faith towards 
the whites, his boast that he would not deliver up a 20 
Wampanoag nor the paring of a Wampanoag's nail, and 
his threat that he would burn the English alive in their 
houses, he disdained to justify himself, haughtily answer- 
ing that others were as forward for the war as himself, 
and he desired " to hear no more thereof." 25 

So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a fidelity to 
his cause and his friend, might have touched the feel- 
ings of the generous and the brave; but Canonchet was 
an Indian, a being towards whom war had no courtesy, 
humanity no law, religion no compassion — he was con- 30 
demned to die. The last words of him that are recorded 
are worthy the greatness of his soul. When sentence 
of death was passed upon him, he observed that he liked 
it well, for he should die before his heart was soft or he 



296 The Sketch Book 

had spoken anything unworthy of himself. His enemies 
gave him the death of a soldier, for he was shot at 
Stoningham by three young sachems of his own rank. 
The defeat at the Narragansett fortress and the death 
5 of Canonchet were fatal blows to the fortunes of King 
Philip. He made an ineffectual attempt to raise a head 
of war by stirring up the Mohawks to take arms; but 
though possessed of the native talents of a statesman, 
his arts w^ere counteracted by the superior arts of his 

10 enlightened enemies, and the terror of their warlike skill 
began to subdue the resolution of the neighboring tribes. 
The unfortunate chieftain saw himself daily stripped of 
power and his ranks rapidly thinning around him. Some 
were suborned by the whites, others fell victims to hunger 

15 and fatigue and to the frequent attacks by which they 
were harassed. His stores were all captured, his chosen 
friends were swept away from before his eyes, his uncle 
was shot down by his side, his sister was carried Into 
captivity, and In one of his narrow escapes he was com- 

20 pelled to leave his beloved wife and only son to the 
mercy of the enemy. " His ruin," says the historian, 
" being thus gradually carried on, his misery was not 
prevented, but augmented thereby; being himself made 
acquainted with the sense and experimental feeling of 

25 the captivity of his children, loss of friends, slaughter of 
his subjects, bereavement of all family relations, and being 
stripped of all outw^ard comforts before his own life 
should be taken away." 

To fill up the measure of his misfortunes, his own fol- 

30 lowers began to plot against his life, that by sacrificing 
him they might purchase dishonorable safety. Through 
treachery a number of his faithful adherents, the sub- 
jects of Wetamoe, an Indian princess of Pocasset, a near 
kinswoman and confederate of Philip, were betrayed Into 



Philip of Pokanoket 297 

the hands of the enemj-. Wetamoe was among them at 
the time and attempted to make her escape by crossing 
a neighboring river ; either exhausted by swimming or 
starved by cold and hunger, she was found dead and 
naked near the water side. But persecution ceased not at 5 
the grave. Even death, the refuge of the wretched, where 
the wicked commonly cease from troubling, was no pro- 
tection to this outcast female, whose great crime was affec- 
tionate fidelity to her kinsman and her friend. Her corpse 
was the object of unmanly and dastardly vengeance; the 10 
head was severed from the body and set upon a pole, and 
was thus exposed at Taunton to the view of her captive 
subjects. They immediately recognized the features of 
their unfortunate queen, and w^re so affected at this 
barbarous spectacle that, we are told, they broke forth 15 
into the " most horrible and diabolical lamentations." 

However Philip had borne up against the complicated 
miseries and misfortunes that surrounded him, the treach- 
ery of his followers seemed to wring his heart and reduce 
him to despondency. It is said that " he never rejoiced 20 
afterw^ards, nor had success in any of his designs." The 
spring of hope was broken, the ardor of enterprise was 
extinguished ; he looked around, and all was danger and 
darkness ; there was no eye to pity, nor any arm that 
could bring deliverance. With a scanty band of followers 25 
who still remained true to his desperate fortunes, the un- 
happy Philip wandered back to the vicinity of Mount 
Hope, the ancient dwelling of his fathers. Here he lurked 
about like a specter among the scenes of former power 
and prosperity, now bereft of home, of family and friend. 30 
There needs no better picture of his destitute and piteous 
situation than that furnished by the homely pen of the 
chronicler who is unwarily enlisting the feelings of the 
reader in favor of the hapless warrior whom he reviles. 



298 The Sketch Book 

*' Philip," he says, '' like a savage wild beast, having been 
hunted by the English forces through the woods above 
a hundred miles backward and forward, at last was 
driven to his own den upon Mount Hope, where he retired 
5 with a few of his best friends into a swamp, which proved 
but a prison to keep him fast till the messengers of death 
came by divine permission to execute vengeance upon 
him." 

Even in this last refuge of desperation and despair, a 

10 sullen grandeur gathers round his memory. We picture 
him to ourselves seated among his care-worn followers, 
brooding in silence over his blasted fortunes, and acquir- 
ing a savage sublimity from the wildness and dreariness 
of his lurking-place. Defeated, but not dismayed — 

15 crushed to the earth, but not humiliated — he seemed to 
grow more haughty beneath disaster, and to experi- 
ence a fierce satisfaction in draining the last dregs of 
bitterness. Little minds are tamed and subdued by 
misfortune, but great minds rise above it. The very idea 

20 of submission awakened the fury of Philip, and he smote 
to death one of his followers who proposed an expedient 
of peace. The brother of the victim made his escape, 
and in revenge betrayed the retreat of his chieftain. A 
body of white men and Indians were immediately 

25 despatched to the swamp where Philip lay crouched, glar- 
ing with fury and despair. Before he was aware of their 
approach they had begun to surround him. In a little 
while he saw five of his trustiest followers laid dead at 
his feet; all resistance was vain; he rushed forth from 

30 his covert and made a headlong attempt to escape, but was 
shot through the heart by a renegado Indian of his own 
nation. 

Such is the scanty story of the brave but unfortunate 
King Philip; persecuted while living, slandered and dis- 



Philip of Pokanoket 299 

honored when dead. If, however, we consider even the 
prejudiced anecdotes furnished us by his enemies, we may 
perceive in them traces of amiable and lofty character 
sufficient to awaken sympathy for his fate and respect 
for his memory. We find that amidst all the harassing 5 
cares and ferocious passions of constant warfare he was 
alive to the softer feelings of connubial love and paternal 
tenderness, and to the generous sentiment of friend- 
ship. The captivity of his " beloved wife and only son " 
is mentioned with exultation as causing him poignant 10 
misery; the death of any near friend is triumphantly 
recorded as a new blow on his sensibilities ; but the 
treachery and desertion of many of his followers in whose 
affections he had confided is said to have desolated his 
heart, and to have bereaved him of all further comfort. 15 
He was a patriot attached to his native soil — a prince true 
to his subjects, and indignant of their wrongs — a soldier 
daring in battle, firm in adversity, patient of fatigue, of 
hunger, of every variety of bodily suffering, and ready to 
perish in the cause he had espoused. Proud of heart and 20 
with an untamable love of natural liberty, he preferred 
to enjoy it among the beasts of the forests or in the dismal 
and famished recesses of swamps and morasses, rather than 
bow his haughty spirit to submission, and live dependent 
and despised in the ease and luxury of the settlements. 25 
With heroic qualities and bold achievements that would 
have graced a civilized warrior and have rendered him 
the theme of the poet and historian, he lived a wanderer 
and a fugitive in his native land, and went down like a 
lonely bark foundering amid darkness and tempest — 30 
without a pitying eye to weep his fall, or a friendly hand 
to record his struggle. 



JOHN BULL 

An old song, made by an aged old pate, 
Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate, 
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate. 
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate. 
With an old study fill'd full of learned old books. 
With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks, 
With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, 
And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks. 

Like an old courtier, etc. 

Old Song. 

There is no species of humor in which the English 
more excel than that which consists in caricaturing and 
giving ludicrous appellations or nicknames. In this way 
they have whimsically designated, not merely individuals, 

5 but nations ; and In their fondness for pushing a joke 
they have not spared even themselves. One would think 
that In personifying itself a nation would be apt to pic- 
ture something grand, heroic, and Imposing; but It Is 
characteristic of the peculiar humor of the English, and 

10 of their love for what Is blunt, comic, and familiar, that 
they have embodied their national oddities In the figure 
of a sturdy, corpulent old fellow, w^Ith a three-cornered 
hat, red waistcoat, leather breeches, and stout oaken 
cudgel. Thus they have taken a singular delight In ex- 

15 hibiting their most private foibles In a laughable point 
of view; and have been so successful In their delineations 
that there is scarcely a being in actual existence more abso- 

300 



John Bull 301 

lutely present to the public mind than that eccentric per- 
sonage, John Bull. 

Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character 
thus drawn of them has contributed to fix it upon the 
nation, and thus to give reality to what at first may 5 
have been painted in a great measure from the imagina- 
tion. Men are apt to acquire peculiarities that are con- 
tinually ascribed to them. The common orders of Eng- 
lish seem wonderfully captivated with the beau ideal 
which they have formed of John Bull, and endeavor to 10 
act up to the broad caricature that is perpetually before 
their eyes. Unluckily, they sometimes make their boasted 
Bull-ism an apology for their prejudice or grossness; and 
this I have especially noticed among those truly home- 
bred and genuine sons of the soil who have never migrated 15 
beyond the sound of Bow-bells. If one of these should 
be a little uncouth in speech and apt to utter imperti- 
nent truths, he confesses that he is a real John Bull and 
always speaks his mind. If he now and then flies into 
an unreasonable burst of passion about trifles, he ob- 20 
serves that John Bull is a choleric old blade, but then 
his passion is over in a moment and he bears no malice. 
If he betrays a coarseness of taste and an insensibility 
to foreign refinements, he thanks Heaven for his igno- 
rance — he is a plain John Bull and has no relish for frip- 25 
pery and knickknacks. His very proneness to be gulled 
by strangers and to pay extravagantly for absurdities 
is excused under the plea of munificence — for John is 
always more generous than wise. 

Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will contrive 30 
to argue every fault into a merit, and will frankly con- 
vict himself of being the honestest fellow in existence. 

However little, therefore, the character may have suited 
in the first instance, it has gradually adapted itself to the 



302 The Sketch Book 

nation, or rather they have adapted themselves to each 
other ; and a stranger who wishes to study English 
peculiarities may gather much valuable information from 
the innumerable portraits of John Bull as exhibited in the 

5 windows of the caricature-shops. Still, however, he is one 
of those fertile humorists that are continually throwing 
out new portraits and presenting different aspects from 
different points of view; and, often as he has been de- 
scribed, I cannot resist the temptation to give a slight 

10 sketch of him, such as he has met my eye. 

John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain, downright, 
matter-of-fact fellow, with much less of poetry about him 
than rich prose. There is little of romance in his nature, 
but a vast deal of strong natural feeling. He excels 

15 in humor more than in wit, is jolly rather than gay, 
melancholy rather than morose ; can easily be moved to a 
sudden tear, or surprised into a broad laugh; but he 
loathes sentiment and has no turn for light pleasantry. 
He is a boon companion if you allow him to have his 

20 humor and to talk about himself; and he will stand by 
a friend in a quarrel, with life and purse, however soundly 
he may be cudgeled. 

In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a propen- 
sity to be somewhat too ready. He is a busy-minded 

25 personage, who thinks not merely for himself and fam- 
ily, but for all the country round, and is most generously 
disposed to be everybody's champion. He is continu- 
ally volunteering his services to settle his neighbors' af- 
fairs, and takes it in great dudgeon if they engage in 

30 any matter of consequence without asking his advice, 
though he seldom engages in any friendly office of the 
kind without finishing by getting into a squabble with 
all parties, and then railing bitterly at their ingratitude. 
He unluckily took lessons in his youth in the noble sci- 



John Bull 303 

ence of defence, and having accomplished himself in the 
use of his limbs and his weapons, and become a perfect 
master at boxing and cudgel pla}^ he has had a trouble- 
some life of it ever since. He cannot hear of a quar- 
rel between the most distant of his neighbors but he 5 
begins incontinently to fumble with the head of his 
cudgel, and consider whether his interest or honor does 
not require that he should meddle in the broil. Indeed, 
he has extended his relations of pride and policy so 
completely over the whole country that no event can take 10 
place without infringing some of his finely spun rights 
and dignities. Couched in his little domain, with these 
filaments stretching forth in every direction, he is like 
some choleric, bottle-bellied old spider who has woven 
his web over a whole chamber, so that a fly cannot 15 
buzz, nor a breeze blow, without startling his repose 
and causing him to sally forth wrathfuUy from his 
den. 

Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old fel- 
low at bottom, yet he is singularly fond of being in the 20 
midst of contention. It is one of his peculiarities, how- 
ever, that he only relishes the beginning of an affray; 
he always goes 'into a fight with alacrity, but comes out 
of it grumbling even when victorious; and though no 
one fights with more obstinacy to carry a contested point, 25 
vet when the battle is over and he comes to the recon- 
ciliation, he is so much taken up with the mere shaking 
of hands that he is apt to let his antagonist pocket all 
that they have been quarreling about. It is not, there- 
fore, fighting that he ought so much to be on his guard 30 
against as making friends. It is difficult to cudgel him 
out of a farthing, but, put him in good humor, and you 
may bargain him out of all the money in his pocket. 
He is like a stout ship, which will weather the roughest 



304 The Sketch Book 

storm uninjured, but roll its masts overboard in the suc- 
ceeding calm. 

He is a little fond of playing the magnifico abroad, of 
pulling out a long purse, flinging his money bravely 
5 about at boxing matches, horse races, cock fights, and 
carrying a high head among "gentlemen of the fancy"; 
but immediately after one of these fits of extravagance, 
he will be taken with violent qualms of economy, stop 
short at the most trivial expenditure, talk desperately 

10 of being ruined and brought upon the parish, and in 
such moods will not pay the smallest tradesman's bill 
without violent altercation. He is, in fact, the most 
punctual and discontented pa)^master in the world ; draw- 
ing his coin out of his breeches pocket with infinite re- 

15 luctance, paying to the uttermost farthing, but accom- 
panying every guinea with a growl. 

With all his talk of economy, however, he is a bounti- 
ful provider and a hospitable housekeeper. His econ- 
omy is a whimsical kind, its chief object being to devise 

20 how he may afford to be extravagant ; for he will be- 
grudge himself a beefsteak and a pint of port one day, 
that he may roast an ox whole, broach a hogshead of 
ale, and treat all his neighbors on the next. 

His domestic establishment is enormously expensive; 

25 not so much from any great outward parade as from the 
great consumption of solid beef and pudding, the vast 
number of followers he feeds and clothes, and his singu- 
lar disposition to pay hugely for small services. He is 
a most kind and indulgent master, and provided his serv- 

30 ants humor his peculiarities, flatter his vanity a little 
now and then, and do not peculate grossly on him before 
his face, they may manage him to perfection. Every- 
thing that lives on him seems to thrive and grow^ fat. 
His house-servants are well paid, and pampered, and 



John Bull 305 

have little to do. His horses are sleek and lazy, and 
prance slowly before his state carriage ; and his house- 
dogs sleep quietly about the door, and will hardly bark 
at a house-breaker. 

His family mansion is an old castellated manor-house, 5 
gray with age, and of a most venerable though weather- 
beaten appearance. It has been built upon no regular 
plan, but is a vast accumulation of parts erected In vari- 
ous tastes and ages. The center bears evident traces of 
Saxon architecture, and Is as solid as ponderous stone 10 
and old English oak can make It. Like all the relics of 
tliat style, it is full of obscure passages, Intricate mazes, 
and dusky chambers; and though these have been par- 
tially lighted up In modern days, yet there are many 
places where j'ou must still grope in the dark. Addi- 15 
tions have been made to the original edifice from time 
to time, and great alterations have taken place; towers 
and battlements have been erected during wars and 
tumults, wings built In time of peace, and outhouses, 
lodges, and offices run up according to the whim or con- 20 
venlence of different generations, until It has become one 
of the most spacious, rambling tenements Imaginable. 
An entire wing Is taken up with the family chapel, a 
reverend pile that must have been exceedingly sumptu- 
ous, and Indeed in spite of having been altered and 25 
simplified at various periods has still a look of solemn 
religious pomp. Its walls within are stored with the 
monuments of John's ancestors; and It is snugly fitted 
up with soft cushions and well-lined chairs, where such 
of his family as are Inclined to church services may doze 30 
comfortably In the discharge of their duties. 

To keep up this chapel has cost John much money; 
but he Is staunch In his religion and piqued In his zeal, 
from the circumstance that many dissenting chapels have 



3o6 The Sketch Book 

been erected in his vicinit)-, and several of his neighbors, 
with whom he has had quarrels, are strong papists. 

To do the duties of the chapel, he maintains at a large 
expense a pious and portly family chaplain. He is a 
5 most learned and decorous personage and a truly well- 
bred Christian, who always backs the old gentleman in 
his opinions, winks discreetly at his little peccadilloes, 
rebukes the children when refractory, and is of great use 
in exhorting the tenants to read their Bibles, say their 

10 prayers, and, above all, to pay their rents punctually and 
without grumbling. 

The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste, 
somewhat heavy and often inconvenient, but full of the 
solemn magnificence of former times; fitted up with rich 

15 though faded tapestry, unwieldy furniture, and loads of 
massive, gorgeous old plate. The vast fireplaces, ample 
kitchens, extensive cellars, and sumptuous banqueting 
halls all speak of the roaring hospitality of days of yore, 
of which the modern festivity at the manor-house is but 

20 a shadow. There are, however, complete suites of rooms 
apparently deserted and time-worn, and towers and tur- 
rets that are tottering to decay, so that in high winds 
there is danger of their tumbling about the ears of the 
household. 

25 John has frequently been advised to have the old edifice 
thoroughly overhauled, and to have some of the useless 
parts pulled down, and the others strengthened with 
their materials; but the old gentleman always grows testy 
on this subject. He swears the house is an excellent 

30 house, that it is tight and weatherproof, and not to be 
shaken by tempests; that it has stood for several hun- 
dred years, and therefore is not likely to tumble down 
now; that as to its being inconvenient, his family is 
accustomed to the inconveniences, and would not be com- 



John Bull 307 

fortable without them ; that as to its unwieldy size and 
irregular construction, these result from its being the 
growth of centuries, and being improved by the wisdom 
of every generation ; that an old family like his requires 
a large house to dwell in ; new, upstart families may 5 
live in modern cottages and snug boxes, but an old Eng- 
lish family should inhabit an old English manor-house. 
If you point out any part of the building as superfluous, 
he insists that it is material to the strength or decora- 
tion of the rest and the harmony of the whole, and swears 10 
.that the parts are so built into each other that if you 
pull down one, you run the risk of having the whole 
about your ears. 

The secret of the matter is, that John has a great dis- 
position to protect and patronize. He thinks it indispen- 15 
sable to the dignity of an ancient and honorable family to 
be bounteous in its appointments and to be eaten up by 
dependents; and so, partly from pride and partly from 
kind-heartedness, he makes it a rule always to give shelter 
and maintenance to his superannuated servants. 20 

The consequence is, that like many other venerable 
family establishments, his manor is encumbered by old 
retainers whom he cannot turn off, and an old style 
which he cannot lay down. His mansion is like a great 
hospital of invalids, and with all its magnitude is not 25 
a whit too large for its inhabitants. Not a nook or 
corner but is of use in housing some useless personage. 
Groups of veteran beef-eaters, gouty pensioners, and re- 
tired heroes of the buttery and the larder are seen lol- 
ling about its walls, crawling over its lawns, dozing under 30 
its trees, or sunning themselves upon the benches at its 
doors. Every office and outhouse is garrisoned by these 
supernumeraries and their families, for they are amaz- 
ingly prolific, and when they die off are sure to leave 



3o8 The Sketch Book 

John a legacy of hungry mouths to be provided for. A 
mattock cannot be struck against the most mouldering 
tumble-down tower, but out pops, from some cranny or 
loophole, the gray pate of some superannuated hanger-on, 
5 who has lived at John's expense all his life, and makes 
the most grievous outcry at their pulling down the roof 
from over the head of a worn-out servant of the family. 
This is an appeal that John's honest heart never can 
withstand, so that a man who has faithfully eaten his 

10 beef and pudding all his life is sure to be rewarded with 
a pipe and tankard in his old days. 

A great part of his park, also, is turned into paddocks, 
where his broken-down chargers are turned loose to graze 
undisturbed for the remainder of their existence — a 

15 worthy example of grateful recollection, which if some 
of his neighbors were to imitate would not be to their 
discredit. Indeed, it is one of his great pleasures to 
point out these old steeds to his visitors, to dwell on 
their good qualities, extol their past services, and boast 

20 with some little vainglory of the perilous adventures and 
hardy exploits through which they have carried him. 

He is given, however, to indulge his veneration for 
family usages and family incumbrances to a whimsical 
extent. His manor is infested by gangs of gypsies, yet 

25 he will not suffer them to be driven off, because they 
have infested the place time out of mind, and been 
regular poachers upon every generation of the family. 
He will scarcely permit a dry branch to be lopped from 
the great trees that surround the house, lest it should 

30 molest the rooks that have bred there for centuries. 
Owls have taken possession of the dovecote, but they 
are hereditary owls and must not be disturbed. Swal- 
lows have nearly choked up every chimney with their 
nests, martins build in every frieze and cornice, crows 



John Bull 309 

flutter about the towers and perch on every weather- 
cock, and old gray-headed rats may be seen in every 
quarter of the house running in and out of their holes 
undauntedly in broad daylight. In short, John has such 
a reverence for everything that has been long in the S 
family that he will not hear even of abuses being re- 
formed, because they are good old family abuses. 

All those whims and habits have concurred wofully to 
drain the old gentleman's purse, and as he prides him- 
self on punctuality in money matters and wishes to main- 10 
tain his credit in the neighborhood, they have caused 
him great perplexity in meeting his engagements. This, 
too, has been increased by the altercations and heart- 
burnings which are continually taking place in his family. 
His children have been brought up to different callings 15 
and are of different ways of thinking, and as they have 
always been allowed to speak their minds freely, they do 
not fail to exercise the privilege most clamorously in the 
present posture of his affairs. Some stand up for the 
honor of the race, and are clear that the old establish- 20 
ment should be kept up in all its state, whatever may be 
the cost ; others, who are more prudent and considerate, 
entreat the old gentleman to retrench his expenses and 
to put his whole sj-stem of housekeeping on a more mod- 
erate footing. He has, indeed, at times seemed inclined 25 
to listen to their opinions, but their w^holesome advice 
has been completely defeated by the obstreperous conduct 
of one of his sons. This is a noisy, rattle-pated fellow 
of rather low habits, who neglects his business to fre- 
quent alehouses, is the orator of village clubs, and a 30 
complete oracle among the poorest of his father's tenants. 
No sooner does he hear any of his brothers mention 
reformi or retrenchment, than up he jumps, takes the 
words out of their mouths, and roars out for an over- 



310 The Sketch Book 

turn. When his tongue is once going nothing can stop 
it. He rants about the room, hectors the old man about 
his spendthrift practices, ridicules his tastes and pur- 
suits, insists that he shall turn the old servants out of 
5 doors, give the broken-down horses to the hounds, send 
the fat chaplain packing, and take a field-preacher in 
his place; nay, that the whole family mansion shall be 
leveled with the ground, and a plain one of brick and 
mortar built in its place. He rails at every social enter- 
ic tainment and family festivity, and skulks away growling 
to the alehouse whenever an equipage drives up to the 
door. Though constantly complaining of the emptiness 
of his purse, yet he scruples not to spend all his pocket 
money in these tavern convocations, and even runs up 
15 scores for the liquor over which he preaches about his 
father's extravagance. 

It may readily be imagined how little such thwarting 
agrees with the old cavalier's fiery temperament. He 
has become so irritable from repeated crossings that the 
20 mere mention of retrenchment or reform is a signal for 
a brawl between him and the tavern oracle. As the 
latter is too sturdy and refractory for paternal disci- 
pline, having grown out of all fear of the cudgel, they 
have frequent scenes of wordy warfare, which at times 
25 run so high that John is fain to call in the aid of his 
son Tom, an officer who has served abroad, but is at 
present living at home on half-pay. This last is sure to 
stand by the old gentleman, right or wrong, likes nothing 
so much as a racketing, roystering life, and is ready at a 
30 wink or nod to out saber and flourish it over the orator's 
head, if he dares to array himself against paternal 
authority. 

These family dissensions, as usual, have got abroad, 
and are rare food for scandal in John's neighborhood. 



John Bull 311 

People begin to look wise and shake their heads when- 
ever his affairs are mentioned. They all hope that 
matters are not so bad w^th him as represented, but 
when a man's own children begin to rail at his extrava- 
gance, things must be badly managed. They understand 5 
he is mortgaged over head and ears and is continually 
dabbling with money lenders. He Is certainly an open- 
handed old gentleman, but they fear he has lived too 
fast; Indeed, they never knew any good come of this 
fondness for hunting, racing, reveling, and prize-fight- 10 
ing. In short, Mr. Bull's estate is a very fine one and 
has been in the family a long time, but for all that they 
have known many finer estates come to the hammer. 

What Is worst of all, Is the effect which these pecuniary 
embarrassments and domestic feuds have had on the poor 15 
man himself. Instead of that jolly round corporation 
and smug rosy face which he used to present, he has of 
late become as shriveled and shrunk as a frost-bitten 
apple. His scarlet, gold-laced waistcoat, which bellied 
out so bravely in those prosperous days when he sailed 20 
before the wnnd, now hangs loosely about him like a 
mainsail in a calm. His leather breeches are all In folds 
and wrinkles, and apparently have much adO to hold up 
the boots that yawn on both sides of his once sturdy legs. 

Instead of strutting about as formerly, with his three- 25 
cornered hat on one side, flourishing his cudgel and 
bringing It down every moment with a hearty thump 
upon the ground, looking every one sturdily in the face, 
and trolling out a stave of a catch or a drinking song, 
he now goes about whistling thoughtfully to himself, wnth 30 
his head drooping down, his cudgel tucked under his 
arm, and his hands thrust to the bottom of his breeches 
pockets, which are evidently empty. 

Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present; yet 



312 The Sketch Book 

for all this the old fellow's spirit is as tall and as gallant 
as ever. If you drop the least expression of sympathj^ 
or concern, he takes fire in an instant, swears that he is 
the richest and stoutest fellow in the country, talks of 
5 laying out large sums to adorn his house or buy another 
estate, and, with a valiant swagger and grasping of his 
cudgel, longs exceedingly to have another bout at quarter- 
staff. 

Though there may be something rather whimsical in 

10 all this, yet I confess I cannot look upon John's situation 
without strong feelings of interest. With all his odd 
humors and obstinate prejudices, he is a sterling-hearted 
old blade. He may not be so wonderfully fine a fellow 
as he thinks himself, but he is at least twice as good as 

15 his neighbors represent him. His virtues are all his 
own — all plain, homebred, and unaffected. His very 
faults smack of the raciness of his good qualities. His 
extravagance savors of his generosity, his quarrelsome- 
ness of his courage, his credulity of his open faith, his 

20 vanity of his pride, and his bluntness of his sincerity. 
They are all the redundancies of a rich and liberal char- 
acter. He is like his own oak, rough without, but sound 
and solid Within; whose bark abounds with excrescences 
in proportion to the growth and grandeur of the timber; 

25 and whose branches make a fearful groaning and mur- 
muring in the least storm, from their very magnitude 
and luxuriance. There is something, too, in the appear- 
ance of his old family mansion that is extremely poet- 
ical and picturesque; and as long as it can be rendered 

30 comfortably habitable, I should almost tremble to see it 
meddled with during the present conflict of tastes and 
opinions. Some of his advisers are no doubt good archi- 
tects that might be of service, but many, I fear, are mere 
levelers, w^ho, when they had once got to work with their 



John Bull 313 

mattocks on this venerable edifice, would never stop until 
they had brought it to the ground, and perhaps buried 
themselves among the ruins. All that I wish is, that 
John's present troubles ma}' teach him more prudence 
in future ; that he ma}' cease to distress his mind about 5 
other people's affairs; that he may give up the fruitless 
attempt to promote the good of his neighbors and the 
peace and happiness of the world by dint of the cudgel ; 
that he may remain quietly at home, gradually get his 
house into repair, cultivate his rich estate according to 10 
his fancy, husband his income — if he thinks proper, bring 
his unruly children into order — if he can, renew the 
jovial scenes of ancient prosperity, and long enjoy on 
his paternal lands a green, an honorable, and a merry old 
age. 15 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 

May no wolfe howle; no screech owle stir 

A wing about thy sepulcher ! 

No boysterous winds or stormes come hither, 

To starve or wither 
Thy soft sweet earth! but, like a spring. 
Love keep it ever flourishing. 

Herrick. 

In the course of an excursion through one of the remote 
counties of England, I had struck into one of those 
cross-roads that lead through the more secluded parts of 
the country, and stopped one afternoon at a village, the 
5 situation of which was beautifully rural and retired. 
There was an air of primitive simplicity about its in- 
habitants not to be found in the villages which lie on the 
great coach-roads. I determined to pass the night there, 
and having taken an early dinner, strolled out to enjoy the 

10 neighboring scenery. 

My ramble, as is usually the case with travelers, soon 
led me to the church, which stood at a little distance 
from the village. Indeed, it was an object of some curi- 
osity, its old tower being completely overrun with ivy,» 

15 so that only here and there a jutting buttress, an angle 
of gray wall, or a fantastically carved ornament peered 
through the verdant covering. It was a lovely evening. 
The early part of the day had been dark and showery, 
but in the afternoon it had cleared up, and though sul- 

20 len clouds still hung overhead, yet there was a broad 

314 



The Pride of the Village 315 

tract of golden sky in the west, from which the setting 
sun gleamed through the dripping leaves and lit up all 
nature with a melancholy smile. It seemed like the 
parting hour of a good Christian, smiling on the sins 
and sorrows of the world, and giving in the serenity 5 
of his decline an assurance that he will rise again in 
glory. 

I had seated myself on a half-sunken tombstone and 
was musing, as one is apt to do at this sober-thoughted 
hour, on past scenes and early friends, — on those who 10 
were distant and those who were dead, — and indulging 
in that kind of melancholy fancying which has in it some- 
thing sweeter even than pleasure. Every now and then 
the stroke of a bell from the neighboring tower fell on 
my ear; its tones were in unison with the scene, and, 15 
Instead of jarring, chimed in with my feelings; and it 
was some time before I recollected that it must be tolling 
the knell of some new tenant of the tomb. 

Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the vil- 
lage green ; it wound slowly along a lane, was lost, and 20 
reappeared through the breaks of the hedges, until it 
passed the place where I was sitting. The pall was sup- 
ported by young girls dressed in white; and another, 
about the age of seventeen, walked before, bearing a 
chaplet of white flowers, a token that the deceased was 25 
a young and unmarried female. The corpse was followed 
by the parents. They were a venerable couple of the 
better order of peasantry. The father seemed to repress 
his feelings, but his fixed eye, contracted brow, and 
deeply furrowed face showed the struggle that was pass- 30 
ing within. His wife hung on his arm, and wept aloud 
with the convulsive bursts of a mother's sorrow. 

I followed the funeral into the church. The bier was 
placed in the center aisle, and the chaplet of white flow- 



3i6 The Sketch Book 

ers, with a pair of white gloves, were hung over the seat 
which the deceased had occupied. 

Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of the fu- 
neral service, — for who is so fortunate as never to have 
5 followed someone he has loved to the tomb ? — but when 
performed over the remains of innocence and beauty thus 
laid low in the bloom of existence, what can be more 
affecting? At that simple but most solemn consign- 
ment of the body to the grave, '' Earth to earth, ashes 

10 to ashes, dust to dust," the tears of the youthful com- 
panions of the deceased flowed unrestrained. The father 
still seemed to struggle with his feelings, and to com- 
fort himself with the assurance that the dead are blessed 
which die in the Lord; but the mother only thought of 

15 her child as a flower of the field cut down and withered 
in the midst of its sweetness; she was like Rachel, 
" mourning over her children, and would not be com- 
forted." 

On returning to the inn, I learned the whole story of 

20 the deceased. It was a simple one, and such as has often 
been told. She had been the beauty and pride of the 
village. Her father had once been an opulent farmer, 
but was reduced in circumstances. This was an only 
child, and brought up entirely at home in the simplicity 

25 of rural life. She had been the pupil of the village 
pastor, the favorite lamb of his little flock. The good 
man watched over her education with paternal care. It 
was limited, and suitable to the sphere in which she was 
to move ; for he only sought to make her an ornament 

30 to her station in life, not to raise her above it. The 
tenderness and indulgence of her parents and the exemp- 
tion from all ordinary occupations had fostered a natural 
grace and delicacy of character that accorded with the 
fragile loveliness of her form. She appeared like some 



The Pride of the Village 317 

tender plant of the garden, blooming accidentally amid 
the hardier natives of the field. 

The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowl- 
edged by her companions, but without envy; for it was 
surpassed by the unassuming gentleness and winning kind- 5 
ness of her manners. It might be truly said of her: 

This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever 

Ran on the green-sward ; nothing she does or seems 

But smacks of something greater than herself, 

Too noble for this place. 10 

The village was one of those sequestered spots which 
still retain some vestiges of old English customs. It 
had its rural festivals and holiday pastimes, and still 
kept up some faint observance of the once popular rites 
of May. These, indeed, had been promoted by Its pres- 15 
ent pastor, who was a lover of old customs and one of 
those simple Christians that think their mission fulfilled 
by promoting joy on earth and good-will among man- 
kind. Under his auspices the May-pole stood from year 
to year in the center of the village green ; on May-day 20 
it was -decorated with garlands and streamers, and a 
queen, or lady, of the May was appointed, as in former 
times, to preside at the sports and distribute the prizes 
and rewards. The picturesque situation of the village 
and the fancifulness of its rustic fetes would often at- 25 
tract the notice of casual visitors. Among these, on 
one May-day, was a young officer whose regiment had 
been recently quartered in the neighborhood. He was 
charmed with the native taste that pervaded this village 
pageant, but above all with the dawning loveliness of 30 
the queen of May. It was the village favorite, who was 
crowned with flowers, and blushing and smiling in all 
the beautiful confusion of girlish diffidence and delight. 



3i8 The Sketch Book 

The artlessness of rural habits enabled him readily to 
make her acquaintance; he gradually won his way Into 
her Intimacy, and paid his court to her In that unthink- 
ing way In which young officers are too apt to trifle with 
5 rustic simplicity. 

There was nothing In his advances to startle or alarm. 
He never even talked of love; but there are modes of 
making It more eloquent than language, and which con- 
vey It subtUely and Irresistibly to the heart. The beam 

10 of the eye, the tone of voice, the thousand tendernesses 
which emanate from every word and look and action — 
these form the true eloquence of love, and can always 
be felt and understood, but never described. Can we 
wonder that they should readily win a heart, young, 

15 guileless, and susceptible? As to her, she loved almost 
unconsciously; she scarcely Inquired what was the grow- 
ing passion that was absorbing every thought and feeling, 
or what were to be Its consequences. She, Indeed, 
looked not to the future. When present, his looks and 

20 words occupied her whole attention ; when absent, she 
thought but of what had passed at their recent inter- 
view. She would wander with him through the green 
lanes and rural scenes of the vicinity. He taught her 
to see new beauties In nature, he talked In the language 

25 of polite and cultivated life, and breathed Into her ear 
the witcheries of romance and poetry. 

Perhaps there could not have been a passion between 
the sexes more pure than this Innocent girl's. The gal- 
lant figure of her youthful admirer and the splendor of 

30 his military attire might at first have charmed her eye, 
but It was not these that had captivated her heart. Her 
attachment had something in It of Idolatry. She looked 
up to him as to a being of a superior order. She felt In 
his society the enthusiasm of a mind naturally delicate 



The Pride of the Village 319 

and poetical, and now first awakened to a keen percep- 
tion of the beautiful and grand. Of the sordid distinc- 
tions of rank and fortune she thought nothing; it was 
the difference of intellect, of demeanor, of manners, from 
those of the rustic society to which she had been accus- 5 
tomed, that elevated him in her opinion. She would 
listen to him with charmed ear and downcast look 
of mute delight, and her cheek would mantle with en- 
thusiasm; or if ever she ventured a shy glance of timid 
admiration, it was as quickly withdrawn, and she would 10 
sigh and blush at the idea of her comparative unworthi- 
ness. 

Her lover was equally impassioned, but his passion 
was mingled with feelings of a coarser nature. He had 
begun the connection in levity, for he had often heard 15 
his brother officers boast of their village conquests, and 
thought some triumph of the kind necessary to his repu- 
tation as a man of spirit. But he was too full of youthful 
fervor. His heart had not yet been rendered sufficiently 
cold and selfish by a wandering and a dissipated life ; 20 
it caught fire from the very flame it sought to kindle, and 
before he was aware of the nature of his situation he 
became really in love. 

What was he to do? There were the old obstacles 
which so incessantly occur In these heedless attachments. 25 
His rank in life, the prejudices of titled connections, 
his dependence upon a proud and unyielding father, — all 
forbade him to think of matrimony; but when he looked 
down upon this Innocent being, so tender and confiding, 
there was a purity in her manners, a blamelessness in her 30 
life, and a beseeching modesty In her looks that awed 
down every licentious feeling. In vain did he try to 
fortify himself by a thousand heartless examples of men 
of fashion, and to chill the glow of generous sentiment 



320 The Sketch Book 

with that cold, derisive levity with which he had heard 
them talk of female virtue ; whenever he. came into her 
presence, she w^is still surrounded by that mysterious 
but impassive charm of virgin purity in whose hallowed 

5 sphere no guilty thought can live. 

The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to 
repair to the Continent completed the confusion of his 
mind. He remained for a short time in a state of the 
most painful irresolution; he hesitated to communicate 

10 the tidings until the day for marching was at hand, when 
he gave her the intelligence in the course of an evening 
ramble. 

The idea of parting had never before occurred to her. 
It broke in at once upon her dream of felicity; she 

15 looked upon it as a sudden and insurmountable evil, 
and wept with the guileless simplicity of a child. He 
drew her to his bosom and kissed the tears from her soft 
cheek; nor did he meet wnth a repulse, for there are 
moments of mingled sorrow and tenderness which hallow 

20 the caresses of affection. He was naturally impetuous, 
and the sight of beauty apparently yielding in his arms, the 
confidence of his power over her, and the dread of los- 
ing her forever, all conspired to overwhelm his better 
feelings — he ventured to propose that she should leave 

25 her home and be the companion of his fortunes. 

He was quite a novice in seduction, and blushed and 
faltered at his ov\n baseness; but so innocent of mind 
was his intended victim that she was at first at a loss to 
comprehend his meaning, and why she should leave 

30 her native village and the humble roof of her parents. 
When at last the nature of his proposal flashed upon her 
pure mind, the effect was withering. She did not weep — 
she did not break forth into reproach — she said not a 
word- — but she shrunk back aghast as from a viper, gave 



The Pride of the Village 321 

him a look of anguish that pierced to his very soul, and, 
clasping her hands in agony, fled as if for refuge to her 
father's cottage. 

The officer retired, confounded, humiliated, and re- 
pentant. It is uncertain what might have been the result 5 
of the conflict of his feelings had not his thoughts been 
diverted by the bustle of departure. New scenes, new 
pleasures, and new companions soon dissipated his self- 
reproach and stifled his tenderness; yet amidst the stir 
of camps, the revelries of garrisons, the array of armies, 10 
and even the din of battles, his thoughts would some- 
times steal back to the scenes of rural quiet and village 
simplicity — the white cottage — the footpath along the 
silver brook and up the hawthorn hedge, and the little 
village maid loitering along it leaning on his arm and 15 
listening to him with eyes beaming with unconscious 
affection. 

The shock which the poor girl had received in the 
destruction of all her ideal world had indeed been cruel. 
Paintings and hj^sterics had at first shaken her tender 20 
frame, and were succeeded by a settled and pining mel- 
ancholy. She had beheld from her window the march 
of the departing troops. She had seen her faithless lover 
borne off, as if in triumph, amidst the sound of drum 
and trumpet and the pomp of arms. She strained a last 25 
aching gaze after him, as the morning sun glittered about 
his figure and his plume waved in the breeze; he passed 
away like a bright vision from her sight and left her 
all in darkness. 

It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of her 30 
after story. It was, like other tales of love, melancholy. 
She avoided society and wandered out alone in the walks 
she had most frequented with her lover. She sought, 
like the stricken deer, to weep in silence and loneliness, 



32 2 The Sketch Book 

and brood over the barbed sorrow that rankled in her 
soul. Sometimes she would be seen late of an evening 
sitting in the porch of the village church, and the milk- 
maids returning from the fields would now and then 
5 overhear her singing some plaintive ditty in the hawthorn 
walk. She became fervent in her devotions at church; 
and as the old people saw her approach, so wasted away, 
yet with a hectic bloom and that hallowed air which 
melancholy diffuses round the form, they would make 

10 way for her as for something spiritual, *and looking after 
her would shake their heads in gloomy foreboding. 

She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the 
tomb, but looked forward to it as a place of rest. The 
silver cord that had bound her to existence was loosed, 

15 and there seemed to be no more pleasure under the sun. 
If ever her gentle bosom had entertained resentment 
against her lover, it was extinguished. She was inca- 
pable of angry passions, and in a moment of saddened 
tenderness she penned him a farewell letter. It was 

20 couched in the simplest language, but touching from its 
very simplicity. She told him that she was dying, and 
did not conceal from him that his conduct was the cause. 
She even depicted the sufferings which she had experi- 
enced, but concluded with saying that she could not die 

25 in peace until she had sent him her forgiveness and her 
blessing. 

By degrees her strength declined; she could no longer 
leave the cottage. She could only totter to the window, 
where, propped up in her chair, it was her enjoyment 

30 to sit all day and look out upon the landscape. Still 
she uttered no complaint, nor imparted to any one the 
malady that was preying on her heart. She never even 
mentioned her lover's name, but would lay her head on 
her mother's bosom and weep in silence. Her poor 



The Pride of the Village 323 

parents hung in mute anxiety over this fading blossom 
of their hopes, still flattering themselves that it might 
again revive to freshness and that the bright unearthly 
bloom which sometimes flushed her cheek might be the 
promise of returning health. 5 

In this way she was seated between them one Sunday 
afternoon ; her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice 
was thrown open, and the soft air that stole in brought 
with it the fragrance of the clustering honeysuckle w^hich 
her own hands had trained round the window. 10 

Her father had just been reading a chapter in the 
Bible ; it spoke of the vanity of worldly things and of 
the joys of heaven; it seemed to have diffused comfort 
and serenity through her bosom. Her eye was fixed on 
the distant village church ; the bell had tolled for the 15 
evening service, the last villager was lagging into the 
porch, and everything had sunk into that hallowed still- 
ness peculiar to the day of rest. Her parents were gaz- 
ing on her with yearning hearts. Sickness and sorrow, 
which pass so roughly over some faces, had given to hers 20 
the expression of a seraph's. A tear trembled in her 
soft blue eye. Was she thinking of her faithless lover? 
Or were her thoughts wandering to that distant church- 
yard, into whose bosom she might soon be gathered? 

Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard — a horseman 25 
galloped to the cottage — he dismounted before the win- 
dow — the poor girl gave a faint exclamation and sunk 
back in her chair. It was her repentant lover! He 
rushed into the house and flew to clasp her to his bosom; 
but her wasted form — her deathlike countenance — so wan, 30 
and yet so lovely in its desolation — smote him to the soul, 
and he threw himself in agony at her feet. She was too 
faint to rise — she attempted to extend her trembling 
hand — her lips moved as if she spoke, but no word was 



324 The Sketch Book 

articulated — she looked down upon him with a smile of 
unutterable tenderness — and closed her eyes forever! 

Such are the particulars which I gathered of this vil- 
lage story. They are but scanty, and I am conscious 
shave little novelty to recommend them. In the present 
rage also for strange incident and high-seasoned narra- 
tive they may appear trite and insignificant, but they 
interested me strongly at the time; and taken in connec- 
tion with the affecting ceremony which I had just wit- 

10 nessed, left a deeper impression on my mind than many 
circumstances of a more striking nature. I have passed 
through the place since and visited the church again 
from a better motive than mere curiosity. It was a 
wintry evening; the trees were stripped of their foliage, 

15 the churchyard looked naked and mournful, and the wind 
rustled coldly through the dry grass. Evergreens, how- 
ever, had been planted about the grave of the village 
favorite, and osiers were bent over it to keep the turf 
uninjured. 

20 The church door was open and I stepped in. There 
hung the chapjet of flowers and the gloves, as on the 
day of the funeral. The flowers were withered, it is true, 
but care seemed to have been taken that no dust should 
soil their whiteness. I have seen many monuments where 

25 art has exhausted its powers to awaken the sympathy 
of the spectator, but I have met with none that spoke 
more touchingly to my heart than this simple but delicate 
memento of departed innocence. 



THE ANGLER 

This day dame Nature seem'd in love, 

The lusty sap began to move, 

Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines 

And birds had drawn their valentines. 

The jealous trout that low did lie, 

Rose at a well-dissembled flie. 

There stood my friend, with patient skill, 

Attending of his trembling quill. 

Sir H. Wotton. 

It is said that many an unlucky urchin is induced to 
run away from his family and betake himself to a sea- 
faring life from reading the history of Robinson Crusoe; 
and I suspect that, in like manner, many of those worthy 
gentlemen who are given to haunt the sides of pastoral 5 
streams with angle rods in hand may trace the origin 
of their passion to the seductive pages of honest Izaak 
Walton. I recollect studying his Complete Angler several 
j^ears since, in company with a knot of friends in Amer- 
ica, and moreover that we were all completely bitten with 10 
the angling mania. It was early in the year; but as 
soon as the weather was auspicious and that the spring 
began to melt into the verge of summer, we took rod in 
hand and sallied into the country, as stark mad as was 
ever Don Quixote from reading books of chivalry. 15 

One of our party had equaled the Don in the fulness 
of his equipments, being attired cap-a-pie for the enter- 
prise. He wore a broad-skirted fustian coat perplexed 
with half a hundred pockets, a pair of stout shoes and 

325 



326 The Sketch Book 

leathern gaiters, a bask»t slung on one side for fish, a 
patent rod, a landing net, and a score of other incon- 
veniences only to be found in the true angler's armory. 
Thus harnessed for the field, he was as great a matter of 
5 stare and wonderment among the country folk, who had 
never seen a regular angler, as was the steel-clad hero of 
La Mancha among the goatherds of the Sierra Morena. 

Our first essay was along a mountain brook among 
the highlands of the Hudson, a most unfortunate place 

10 for the execution of those piscatory tactics which had 
been invented along the velvet margins of quiet English 
rivulets. It was one of those wild streams that lavish 
among our romantic solitudes unheeded beauties enough 
to fill the sketch-book of a hunter of the picturesque. 

15 Sometimes it would leap down rocky shelves, making 
small cascades over which the trees threw their broad 
balancing sprays, and long nameless weeds hung in fringes 
from the impending banks, dripping with diamond drops. 
Sometimes it would brawl and fret along a ravine in 

20 the matted shade of a forest, filling it with murmurs, 
and after this termagant career would steal forth into 
open day with the most placid demure face imaginable; 
as I have seen some pestilent shrew of a housewife, after 
filling her home with uproar and ill-humor, come dimpling 

25 out of doors, swimming and courtesying and smiling upon 
all the world. 

How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide at such 
times through some bosom of green meadow-land among 
the mountains, where the quiet was only interrupted by 

30 the occasional tinkling of a bell from the lazy cattle 
among the clover, or the sound of a woodcutter's axe 
from the neighboring forest. 

For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of 
sport that required either patience or adroitness, and 



The Angler 327 

had not angled above half an hour before I had com- 
pletely " satisfied the sentiment " and convinced myself 
of the truth of Izaak Walton's opinion, that angling is 
something like poetry — a man must be born to it. I 
hooked myself instead of the fish, tangled my line in 5 
every tree, lost my bait, broke my rod, until I gave up 
the attempt in despair, and passed the day under the 
trees reading old Izaak, satisfied that it was his fasci- 
nating vein of honest simplicity and rural feeling that 
had bewitched me, and not the passion for angling. My 10 
companions, however, were more persevering in their 
delusion. I have them at this moment before my eyes, 
stealing along the border of the brook where it lay 
open to the day or was merely fringed by shrubs and 
bushes. I see the bittern rising with hollow scream as 15 
they break in upon his rarely invaded haunt, the king- 
fisher watching them suspiciously from his dry tree that 
overhangs the deep, black mill pond in the gorge of the 
hills, the tortoise letting himself slip sideways from of^ 
the stone or log on which he is sunning himself, and 20 
the panic-struck frog plumping in headlong as they ap- 
proach, and spreading an alarm throughout the watery 
world around. 

I recollect also that after toiling and watching and 
creeping about for the greater part of a day with scarcely 25 
any success, in spite of all our admirable apparatus, a 
lubberly country urchin came down from the hills w^ith 
a rod made from a branch of a tree, a few yards of 
twine, and, as Heaven shall help me! I believe, a crooked 
pin for a hook, baited with a vile earthworm, and in 30 
half an hour caught more fish than we had nibbles 
throughout the day! 

But above all I recollect the " good, honest, whole- 
some, hungry" repast which we made under a beech 



328 The Sketch Book 

tree, just by a spring of pure, sweet water that stole out 
of the side of a hill ; and how, when it was over, one of 
the party read old Izaak Walton's scene with the milk- 
maid, while I lay on the grass and built castles in a 
5 bright pile of clouds until I fell asleep. All this may 
appear like mere egotism, yet I cannot refrain from utter- 
ing these recollections which are passing like a strain of 
music over my mind and have been called up by an agree- 
able scene which I witnessed not long since. 

10 In a morning's stroll along the banks of the Alun, a 
beautiful little stream which flows down from the Welsh 
hills and throws itself into the Dee, my attention was 
attracted to a group seated on the margin. On approach- 
ing I found it to consist of a veteran angler and two 

15 rustic disciples. The former was an old fellow with a 
wooden leg, with clothes very much but very carefully 
patched, betokening poverty honestly come by and de- 
cently maintained. His face bore the marks of former 
storms but present fair weather, its furrows had been 

20 worn into an habitual smile, his iron-gray locks hung 
about his ears, and he had altogether the good-humored 
air of a constitutional philosopher who was disposed 
to take the world as it went. One of his companions 
was a ragged wight with the skulking look of an arrant 

25 poacher, and I'll warrant could find his way to any gen- 
tleman's fish pond in the neighborhood in the darkest 
night. The other was a tall, awkward country lad, with a 
lounging gait, and apparently somewhat of a rustic beau. 
The old man was busy in examining the maw of a trout 

30 which he had just killed to discover by its contents what 
insects were seasonable for bait, and was lecturing on the 
subject to his companions, who appeared to listen with 
infinite deference. I have a kind feeling towards all 
*' brothers of the angle " ever since I read Izaak Walton, 



The Angler 329 

They are men, he affirms, of a " mild, sweet, and peace- 
able spirit," and my esteem for them has been increased 
since I met with an old Tretyse of Fishing with the 
Angle, in which are set forth many of the maxims of their 
inoffensive fraternity. " Take good hede," sayeth this 5 
honest little tretyse, " that in going about your disportes 
ye open no man's gates but that ye shet them again. 
Also ye shall not use this forsayd crafti disport for no 
covetousness to the encreasing and sparing of your money 
only, but principally for your solace, and to cause the 10 
helth of your body and specyally of your soule." ^ 

I thought that I could perceive in the veteran angler 
before me an exemplification of what I had read, and 
there was a cheerful contentedness in his looks that quite 
drew me towards him. I could not but remark the gal- 15 
lant manner in which he stumped from one part of the 
brook to another, waving his rod in the air to keep the line 
from dragging on the ground or catching among the 
bushes, and the adroitness with w^hich he would throw his 
fly to any particular place, sometimes skimming it lightly 20 
along a little rapid, sometimes casting it into one of those 
dark holes made by a twisted root or overhanging bank 
in which the large trout are apt to lurk. In the mean- 
while he was giving instructions to his two disciples, 
showing them the manner in which they should handle 25 
their rods, fix their flies, and play them along the sur- 

^ From this same treatise it would appear that angling is a 
more industrious and devout employment than it is generally 
considered. — " For when ye purpose to go on your disportes in 
fishynge ye will not desyre greatlye many persons with you, 
which might let you of your game. And that ye may serve 
God devoutly in sayinge effectually your customable prayers. 
And thus doying, ye shall eschew and also avoyde many vices, as 
ydelnes, which is principall cause to induce man to many other 
vices as it is right well known." 



330 The Sketch Book 

face of the stream. The scene brought to my mind the 
instructions of the sage Piscator to his scholar. The 
country round was of that pastoral kind which Walton 
is fond of describing. It was a part of the great plain of 
5 Cheshire, close by the beautiful vale of Gessford, and 
just where the inferior Welsh hills begin to swell up from 
among fresh-smelling meadows. The day, too, like that 
recorded in his work, was mild and sunshiny, with now 
and then a soft-dropping shower that sowed the whole 

10 earth with diamonds. 

I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, and 
was so much entertained that, under pretext of receiving 
instructions in his art, I kept company with him almost 
the whole day, wandering along the banks of the stream 

15 and listening to his talk. He was very communicative, 
having all the easy garrulity of cheerful old age, and I 
fancy was a little flattered by having an opportunity of 
displaying his piscatory lore; for who does not like now 
and then to play the sage? 

20 He had been much of a rambler in his day, and had 
passed some years of his youth in America, particularly 
in Savannah, where he had entered into trade and had 
been ruined by the indiscretion of a partner. He had 
afterwards experienced many ups and down in life, until 

25 he got into the navy, where his leg was carried away by 
a cannon-ball at the Battle of Camperdown. This w^as 
the only stroke of real good fortune he had ever experi- 
enced, for it got him a pension, which, together with 
some small paternal property, brought him in a revenue 

30 of nearly forty pounds. On this he retired to his native 
village, where he lived quietly and independently, and de- 
voted the remainder of his life to the " noble art of 
angling." 

I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and 



The Angler 331 

he seemed to have imbibed all his simple frankness and 
prevalent good-humor. Though he had been sorely buf- 
feted about the world, he was satisfied that the world in 
itself was good and beautiful. Though he had been as 
roughly used in different countries as a poor sheep that 5 
is fleeced by every hedge and thicket, yet he spoke of 
every nation with candor and kindness, appearing to 
look only on the good side of things ; and, above all, he was 
almost the only man I had ever met with who had been 
an unfortunate adventurer in America and had honesty 10 
and magnanimity enough to take the fault to his own 
door, and not to curse the country. The lad that was 
receiving his instructions, I learnt, was the son and heir 
apparent of a fat old widow who kept the village inn, 
and of course a youth of some expectation, and much 15 
courted by the idle gentlemenlike personages of the place. 
In taking him under his care, therefore, the old man 
had probably an eye to a privileged corner in the taproom, 
and an occasional cup of cheerful ale free of expense. 

There is certainly something in angling (if we could 20 
forget, which anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and 
tortures inflicted on worms and insects) that tends to 
produce a gentleness of spirit and a pure serenity of 
mind. As the English are methodical even in their recrea- 
tions, and are the most scientific sportsmen, it has been 25 
reduced among them to perfect rule and system. Indeed 
it is an amusement peculiarly adapted to the mild and 
highly cultivated scenery of England, where every rough- 
ness has been softened away from the landscape. It is 
delightful to saunter along those limpid streams which 30 
wander like veins of silver through the bosom of this 
beautiful country, leading one through a diversity of 
small home scenery; sometimes winding through orna- 
mented grounds, sometimes brimming along through rich 



332 The Sketch Book 

pasturage, where the fresh green is mingled with sweet 
smelhng flowers; sometimes venturing in sight of vil- 
lages and hamlets, and then running capriciously away 
into shady retirements. The sweetness and serenity of 
5 nature and the quiet watchfulness of the sport gradu- 
ally bring on pleasant fits of musing, which are now and 
then agreeably interrupted by the song of a bird, the dis- 
tant whistle of the peasant, or perhaps the vagary of 
some fish, leaping out of the still water and skimming 

10 transiently about its glassy surface. *' When I would 
beget content," says Izaak Walton, ** and increase con- 
fidence in the power and wisdom and providence of Al- 
mighty God, I will walk the meadows by some gliding 
stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, 

15 and those very many other little living creatures that are 
not only created, but fed — man knows not how — ^by the 
goodness of the God of nature, and therefore trust in 
Him." 

I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of 

20 those ancient champions of angling, which breathes the 
same innocent and happy spirit: 

Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink 
Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place. 
Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sink, 
25 With eager bite of pike, or bleak, or dace; 

And on the world and my Creator think: 

Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace; 
And others spend their time in base excess 
Of wine, or worse, in war, or wantonness. 
30 Let them that will, these pastimes still pursue, 

And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill; 
So I the fields and meadows green may view, 

And daily by fresh rivers walk at will, 
Among the daisies and the violets blue, 
35 Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil/ 

^J. Davors. 



The Angler 333 

On parting with the old angler I inquired after his 
place of abode, and happening to be in the neighborhood 
of the village a few evenings afterwards, I had the curi- 
osity to seek him out. I found him living in a small 
cottage containing only one room, but a perfect curiosity 5 
in its method and arrangement. It was on the skirts of 
the village on a green bank, a little back from the road, 
with a small garden in front stocked with kitchen herbs 
and adorned with a few flowers. The whole front of the 
cottage was overrun with a honeysuckle. On the top 10 
was a ship for a weathercock. The interior was fitted 
up in a truly nautical style, his ideas of comfort and 
convenience having been acquired on the berth deck of 
a man-of-war. A hammock was slung from the ceiling, 
which in the daytime was lashed up so as to take but 15 
little room. From the center of the chamber hung a 
model of a ship of his own workmanship. Two or three 
chairs, a table, and a large sea chest formed the prin- 
cipal movables. About the wall were stuck up naval bal- 
lads, such as Admiral Hosier s Ghost, All in the Downs, 20 
and Torn Boivline, intermingled with pictures of sea- 
fights, among which the Battle of Camperdown held 
a distinguished place. The mantelpiece was decorated 
with sea shells, over which hung a quadrant flanked by 
two wood cuts of most bitter looking naval commanders. 25 
His implements for angling were carefully disposed on 
nails and hooks about the room. On a shelf was ar- 
ranged his library, containing a work on angling much 
worn, a Bible covered with canvas, an odd volume or two 
of voyages, a nautical almanac, and a book of songs. 30 

His family consisted of a large black cat with one eye, 
and a parrot which he had caught and tamed and edu- 
cated himself m the course of one of his voyages, and 
which uttered a variety of sea phrases with the hoarse 



334 The Sketch Book 

bratth'ng tone of a veteran boatswain. The establish- 
ment reminded me of that of the renowned Robinson 
Crusoe. It was kept in neat order, everything being 
"stowed away" with the regularity of a ship of war; 
5 and he informed me that he scoured the deck every 
morning, and swept it between meals. 

I found him seated on a bench before the door, smok- 
ing his pipe in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was 
purring soberly on the threshold, and his parrot describ- 

10 ing some strange evolutions in an iron ring that swung 
in the center of his cage. He had been angling all day, 
and gave me a history of his sport with as much minute- 
ness as a general would talk over a campaign, being par- 
ticularly animated in relating the manner in which he 

T5 had taken a large trout, which had completely tasked all 
his skill and wariness, and which he had sent as a trophy 
to mine hostess of the inn. 

How comforting it is to see a cheerful and contented 
old age, and to behold a poor fellow like this, after being 

20 tempest-tossed through life, safely moored in a snug and 
quiet harbor in the evening of his days! His happiness, 
however, sprung from within himself, and was inde- 
pendent of external circumstances, for he had that inex- 
haustible good-natuce which is the most precious gift of 

25 Heaven, spreading itself like oil over the troubled sea 
of thought, and keeping the mind smooth and equable in 
the roughest weather. 

On inquiring further about him, I learned that he was 
a universal favorite in the village and the oracle of the 

30 taproom, where he delighted the rustics with his songs, 
and, like Sindbad, astonished them with his stories of 
strange lands and shipwrecks and sea fights. He was 
much noticed, too, by gentlemen sportsmen of the neigh- 
borhood, had taught several of them the art of angling, 



The Angler 335 

and was a privileged visitor to their kitchens. The 
whole tenor of his life was quiet and inoffensive, being 
principally passed about the neighboring streams when 
the weather and season were favorable, and at other 
times he employed himself at home, preparing his fishing 5 
tackle for the next campaign, or manufacturing rods, 
nets, and flies for his patrons and pupils among the gentry. 

He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, 
though he generally fell asleep during the sermon. He 
had made it his particular request that when he died he 10 
should be buried in a green spot which he could see 
from his seat in church, and which he had marked out 
ever since he was a boy, and had thought of when far 
from home on the raging sea in danger of being food for 
the fishes; it was the spot where his father and mother 15 
had been buried. 

I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing 
weary; but I could not refrain from drawing the picture 
of this worthy " brother of the angle," who has made me 
more than ever in love with the theory, though I fear 20 
I shall never be adroit in the practice of his art; and 
I will conclude this rambling sketch in the words of 
honest Izaak Walton, by craving the blessing of St. 
Peter's master upon my reader, " and upon all that are 
true lovers of virtue, and dare trust in His providence, 25 
and be quiet, and go a angling." 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH 
KNICKERBOCKER 

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; 

And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
For ever flushing round a summer sky. 

Castle of Indolence. 

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which 
indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad 
expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch 
navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they alw^ays pru- 

5 dently shortened sail and implored the protection of St. 
Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market 
town or rural port which by some is called Greensburgh, 
but which is more generally and properly known by the 
name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, 

10 in former days by the good housewives of the adjacent 
country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands 
to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be 
that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely 
advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. 

15 Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there 
is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among high hills, 
which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. 
A small brook glides through it with just murmur 
enough to lull one to repose, and the occasional whistle of 

336 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 337 

a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only 
sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity. 

I recollect that when a stripling my first exploit in 
squirrel shooting was in a grove of tall walnut trees that 
shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it 5 
at noontime, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was 
startled by the roar of my own gun as it broke the Sabbath 
stillness around and was prolonged and reverberated by 
the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat 
whither I might steal from the world and its distractions 10 
and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I 
know of none more promising than this little valley. 

From the listless repose of the place and the peculiar 
character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from 
the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long 15 
been known by the name of " Sleepy Hollow," and its 
rustic lads are called the " Sleepy Hollow Boys " through- 
out all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influ- 
ence seems to hang over the land and to pervade the very 
atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a 20 
high German doctor during the early days of the settle- 
ment; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or 
wizard of his tribe, held his pow-wows there before the 
country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. 
Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of 25 
some witching power that holds a spell over the minds 
of -the good people, causing them to walk in a continual 
reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvelous beliefs, ' 
are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see 
strange sights and hear music and voices in the air. The 30 
whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted 
spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors 
glare oftener across the valley than in any other part 
of the country, and the nightmare, with her whole 



33 8 The Sketch Book 

nine fold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her 
gambols. 

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this en- 
chanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of 
5 all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on 
hojseback without a head. It is said by some to be the 
ghost of a Hessian trooper whose head had been carried 
away by a cannon-ball in some nameless battle during 
the revolutionary war, and who is ever and anon seen by 

10 the country folk hurrying along in the gloom of night, 
as if on the v*^ings of the wind. His haunts are not con- 
fined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent 
roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church at no 
great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic 

15 historians of those parts, who have been careful in col- 
lecting and collating the floating facts concerning this 
specter, allege that the body of the trooper having been 
buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the 
scene of battle in nightly quest of his head; and that 

20 the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along 
the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being 
belated and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard 
before daybreak. 

Such is the general purport of this legendary supersti- 

25 tion which has furnished materials for many a wild story 
in that region of shadows, and the specter is known at 
all the country firesides by the name of the Headless 
Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. 

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have 

30 mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the 
valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who 
resides there for a time. However wide-awake they may 
have been before they entered that sleepy region, they 
are sure in a little time to inhale the witching influence 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 339 

of the air, and begin to grow imaginative, to dream 
dreams and see apparitions. 

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud, 
for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here 
and there embosomed in the great State of New York 5 
that population, manners, and customs remain fixed, while 
the great torrent of migration and improvement, which 
is making such incessant changes in other parts of this 
restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are 
like those little nooks of still water which border a rapid 10 
stream, where we may see the straw and bubble riding 
quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic 
harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. 
Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy 
shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should 15 
not still find the same trees and the same families vege- 
tating in its sheltered bosom. 

In this by-place of nature, there abode in a remote 
period of American history, — that is to say, some thirty 
years since, — a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod 20 
Crane, who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, " tarried," 
in Sleepy Hollow for the purpose of instructing the chil- 
dren of the vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut, a 
state which supplies the Union with pioneers for the 
mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its 25 
legions of frontier woodsmen and country schoolmasters. 
The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his per- 
son. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow 
shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile 
out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, 30 
and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His 
head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large 
green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked 
like a weathercock perched upon his spindle neck to tell 



340 The Sketch Book 

which wa)^ the wind ble^v. To see him striding along 
the profile of a hill on a windy day with his clothes 
bagging and fluttering about him, one might have mis- 
taken him for the genius of famine descending upon the 
5 earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield. 

His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, 
rudely constructed of logs, the windows partly glazed 
and partly patched with leaves of old copy-books. It 
was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours by a withe 

10 twisted in the handle of the door and stakes set against 
the window shutters; so that, though a thief might get 
in with perfect ease, he would find some embarrassment 
in getting out — an idea most probably borrowed by the 
architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eel- 

15 pot. The schoolhouse stood in a rather lonely but pleas- 
ant situation just at the foot of a woody hill, with a 
brook running close by, and a formidable birch tree 
growing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur 
of his pupils' voices conning over their lessons might be 

20 heard in a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a bee- 
hive, interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice 
of the master in the tone of menace or command ; or, 
peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he 
urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of 

25 knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, 
and ever bore in mind the golden maxim, " Spare the rod 
and spoil the child." Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly 
were not spoiled. 

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was 

30 one of those cruel potentates of the school who joy in 
the smart of their subjects; on the contary, he adminis- 
tered justice with discrimination rather than severity, 
taking the burden off the backs of the weak and laying 
it on those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 341 

that winced at the least flourish of the rod was passed 
by with indulgence, but the claims of justice were satis- 
fied bj' inflicting a double portion on some little tough, 
wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked 
and swelled, and grew dogged and sullen beneath the 5 
birch. All this he called doing his dut}' by their parents; 
and he never inflicted a chastisement without following it 
by the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, 
that he would remember it and thank him for it the lon- 
gest day he had to live. 10 

When school hours were over he was even the com- 
panion and playmate of the larger boys, and on holiday 
afternoons w^ould convoy some of the smaller ones home, 
^^"ho happened to have pretty sisters, or good housewives 
for mothers noted for the comforts of the cupboard. In- 15 
deed it behooved him to keep on good terms with his 
pupils. The revenue arising from his school was small, 
and would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him 
with daily bread, — for he was a huge feeder, and though 
lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda, — but to 20 
help out his maintenance he was, according to country 
customs in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses 
of the farmers whose children he instructed. With these 
he lived successively a week at a time, thus going the 
rounds of the neighborhood with all his worldly effects 25 
tied up in a cotton handkerchief. 

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses 
of his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of 
schooling a grievous burden and schoolmasters as mere 
drones, he had various ways of rendering himself both 30 
useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occa- 
sionally in the lighter labors of the farms, helped to 
make hay, mended the fences, took the horses to water, 
drove the cows from pasture, and cut wood for the 



342 The Sketch Book 

winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity 
and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his little 
empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and 
ingratiating. He found favor in the eyes of the mothers 
5 by petting the children, particularly the youngest ; and 
like the lion bold, which whilom so magnanimously the 
lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on one knee 
and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together. 
In addition to his other vocations he w^as the singing- 

10 master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright 
shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It 
was a matter of no little vanity to him on Sundays to 
take his station in front of the church gallery with a 
band of chosen singers, where in his own mind he com- 

15 pletely carried away the palm from the parson. Certain 
it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the 
congregation; and there are peculiar quavers still to be 
heard in that church, and which may even be heard half 
a mile o£F, quite to the opposite side of the mill-pond, on 

20 a still Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately 
descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by 
divers little makeshifts in that ingenious way which is 
commonly denominated " by hook and by crook," the 
worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was 

25 thought, by all who understood nothing of the labor of 
head work, to have a wonderfully easy life of it. 

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some Impor- 
tance in the female circle of a rural neighborhood, being 
considered a kind of idle, gentlemanlike personage, of 

30 vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the rough 
country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to 
the parson. His appearance, therefore. Is apt to occa- 
sion some little stir at the tea table of a farmhouse and 
the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweet- 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 343 

meats, or peradventure the parade of a silver teapot. 
Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in 
the smiles of all the country damsels. How he would 
figure among them in the churchyard between services 
on Sundays! gathering grapes for them from the wild 5 
vines that overrun the surrounding trees, reciting for 
their amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones, or 
sauntering with a whole bevy of them along the banks 
of the adjacent mill-pond, while the more bashful coun- 
try bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior 10 
elegance and address. 

From his half-itinerant life, also, he was a kind of 
traveling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local 
gossip from house to house, so that his appearance was 
always greeted with satisfaction. He was, moreover, 15 
esteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, for 
he had read several books quite through, and was a per- 
fect master of Cotton Mather's History of New England 
Witchcraft, in which, by the way, he most firmly and 
potently believed. 20 

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness 
and simple credulity. His appetite for the marvelous 
and his powers of digesting it were equally extraordinary, 
and both had been increased by his residence in this spell- 
bound region. No tale was too gross or monstrous for 25 
his capacious swallow. It was often his delight, after 
his school was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch him- 
self on the rich bed of clover bordering the little brook 
that whimpered by his schoolhouse, and there con over 
old Mather's direful tales, until the gathering dusk of 30 
the evening made the printed page a mere mist before his 
eyes. Then, as he wended his way by swamp and stream 
and awful w^oodland to the farmhouse where he happened 
to be quartered, every sound of nature at that witching 



344 The Sketch Book 

hour fluttered his excited imagination: the moan of the 
whip-poor-will ^ from the hillside, the boding cry of the 
tree toad, that harbinger of storm, the dreary hooting 
of the screech owl, or the sudden rustling in the thicket 
5 of birds frightened from their roost. The fireflies, too, 
which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now 
and then startled him as one of uncommon brightness 
would stream across his path; and if by chance a huge 
blockhead of a beetle came winging his blundering flight 

10 against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the 
ghost with the idea that he was struck with a witch's 
token. His only resource on such occasions, either to 
drown thought or drive away evil spirits, was to sing 
psalm tunes; and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as 

15 they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled 
with awe at hearing his nasal melody, " in linked sweet- 
ness long drawn out," floating from the distant hill or 
along the dusky road. 

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass 

20 long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives as they 
sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting 
and spluttering along the hearth, and listen to their 
marvelous tales of ghosts and goblins and haunted fields 
and haunted brooks and haunted bridges and haunted 

25 houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, or 
galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes 
called him. He would delight them equally by his anec- 
dotes of witchcraft and of the direful omens and por- 
tentous sights and sounds in the air which prevailed in 

30 the earlier times of Connecticut, and would frighten 
them wofuUy with speculations upon comets and shooting 

^ The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. 
It receives its name from its note, which is thought to resemble 
those words. 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 345 

stars, and with the alarming fact that the world did abso- 
lutely turn round, and that they were half the time topsy- 
turvy! 

But if there was a pleasure in all this while snugly 
cuddling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was 5 
all of a ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and 
where of course no specter dared to show his face, it 
was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent 
walk homewards. What fearful shapes and shadows be- 
set his path amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy 10 
night ! With what wistful look did he eye every trembling 
ray of light streaming across the waste fields from some 
distant window! How often w^as he appalled by some 
shrub covered with snow, which, like a sheeted specter, 
beset his very path! How often did he shrink with 15 
curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty 
crust beneath his feet, and dread to look over his shoulder 
lest he should behold some uncouth being tramping close 
behind him! and how^ often was he thrown into complete 
dismay by some rushing blast howling among the trees, 20 
in the idea that it was the Galloping Hessian on one of 
his nightly scourings! 

All these, however, w^ere mere terrors of the night, 
phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness; and though 
he had seen many specters in his time, and been more than 25 
once beset by Satan in divers shapes in his lonely perambu- 
lations, 5^et daylight put an end to all these evils, and he 
would have passed a pleasant life of it in despite of the 
devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed 
by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than 30 
ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put to- 
gether, and that was — a woman. 

Among the musical disciples who assembled one even- 
ing in each week to receive his instructions in psalmody 



346 The Sketch Book 

was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of 
a substantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass 
of fresh eighteen, plump as a partridge, ripe and melting 
and rosy-cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and uni- 
5 versally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast 
expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, as 
might be perceived even in her dress, which was a mixture 
of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set off 
her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow 

10 gold which her great-great-grandmother had brought over 
from Saardam, the tempting stomacher of the olden time, 
and withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display the 
prettiest foot and ankle in the country round. 

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards 

15 the sex, and it is not to be wondered at that so tempt- 
ing a morsel soon found favor in his eyes, more espe- 
cially after he had visited her in her paternal mansion. 
Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriv- 
ing, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is 

20 true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the 
boundaries of his own farm, but within those everything 
was snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was satis- 
fied with his wealth, but not proud of it; and piqued 
himself upon the hearty abundance rather than the style 

25 in which he lived. His stronghold was situated on the 
banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, 
fertile nooks in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of 
nestling. A great elm tree spread its broad branches 
over it, at the foot of which bubbled up a spring of 

30 the softest and sweetest water in a little well formed 
of a barrel, and then stole sparkling away through the 
grass to a neighboring brook that bubbled along among 
alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse was 
a \'ast barn that might have served for a church, every 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 347 

window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth 
with the treasures of the farm. The flail was busily re- 
sounding within it from morning to night, swallows and 
martins skimmed twittering about the eaves, and rows of 
pigeons, some with one eye turned up as if watching 5 
the weather, some with their heads under their wings or 
buried in their bosoms, and others swelling and cooing 
and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sun- 
shine on the roof. Sleek, unwieldy porkers were grunt- 
ing in the repose and abundance of their pens, whence 10 
sallied forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if 
to snuft' the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese 
were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole 
fleets of ducks; regiments of turkeys w^ere gobbling 
through the farmyard, and guinea fowls fretting about 15 
it, like ill-tempered housewives, with their pee\'ish, dis- 
contented cry-. Before the barn-door strutted the gallant 
cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior, and a fine 
gentleman, clapping his burnished wings and crowing in 
the pride and gladness of his heart, sometimes tearing 20 
up the earth with his feet and then generously calling 
his ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy 
the rich morsel which he had discovered. 

The pedagogue's mouth watered as he looked upon 
this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In 25 
his devouring mind's eye he pictured to himself every 
roasting pig running about with a pudding in his belly 
and an apple in his mouth ; the pigeons were snugly put 
to bed in a comfortable pie and tucked in with a coverlet 
of crust; the geese were swimming in their own gravy; 30 
and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug mar- 
ried couples, with a decent competency' of onion sauce. 
In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side 
of bacon and juicy relishing ham; not a turkey but he 



348 The Sketch Book 

beheld daintily trussed up with its gizzard under its 
wing, and peradventure a necklace of savory sausages; 
and even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his 
back in a side-dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving 
5 that quarter which his chivalrous spirit disdained to 
ask while living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he 
rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow lands, 
the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian 

10 corn, and the orchards burdened with ruddy fruit, which 
surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart 
yearned after the damsel who was to inherit these do- 
mains, and his imagination expanded with the idea how 
they might be readily turned into cash and the money 

15 invested in immense tracts of wild land and shingle 
palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already 
realized his hopes and presented to him the blooming 
Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted on the 
top of a wagon loaded with household trumpery, with 

20 pots and kettles dangling beneath ; and he beheld him- 
self bestriding a pacing mare with a colt at her heels, 
setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the Lord knows 
where. 

When he entered the house the conquest of his heart 

25 was complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses 
with high-ridged but lowly sloping roofs, built in the 
style handed down from the first Dutch settlers, the low 
projecting eaves forming a piazza along the front capable 
of being closed up in bad weather. Under this were 

30 hung flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and 
nets for fishing in the neighboring river. Benches were 
built along the sides for summer use, and a great spin- 
ning-wheel at one end and a churn at the other showed 
the various uses to which this important porch might 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 349 

be devoted. From this piazza the wandering Ichabod 
entered the hall, which formed the center of the mansion 
and the place of usual residence. Here rows of resplen- 
dent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. 
In one corner stood a huge bag of wool ready to be 5 
spun, in another a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from 
the loom ; ears of Indian corn and strings of dried apples 
and peaches hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingled 
with the gaud of red peppers; and a door left ajar gave 
him a peep at the best parlor, where the claw-footed 10 
chairs and dark mahogany tables shone like mirrors; 
andirons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs, 
glistened from their covert of asparagus tops. Mock 
oranges and conch shells decorated the mantelpiece ; strings 
of various colored birds' eggs were suspended above it. 15 
A great ostrich egg was hung from the center of the room, 
and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed 
Immense treasures of old silver and well-mended china. 

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these 
regions of delight the peace of his mind was at an end, 20 
and his only study was how to gain the affections of the 
peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, how- 
ever, he had more real difficulties than generally fell to 
the lot of a knight-errant of yore, who seldom had any- 
thing but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and such- 25 
like easily conquered adversaries to contend with ; and 
had to make his way merely through gates of Iron and 
brass and walls of adamant to the castle keep, where 
the lady of his heart was confined ; all which he achieved 
as easily as a man would carve his way to the center of 3c 
a Christmas pie; and then the lady gave him her hand 
as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had 
to win his way to the heart of a country coquette, beset 
with a labyrinth of whims and caprices which were for- 



350 The Sketch Book 

ever presenting new difficulties and impediments; and 
he had to encounter a host of fearful adversaries of real 
flesh and blood, the numerous rustic admirers, who beset 
every portal to her heart, keeping a watchful and angry 
5 eye upon each other, but ready to fly out in the common 
cause against any new competitor. 

Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, 
roystering blade of the name of Abraham — or, according 
to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom — Van Brunt, the hero of 

10 the country round, which rang with his feats of strength 
and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and double- 
jointed, with short, curly black hair and a bluff but not 
unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun and 
arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great powers 

15 of limb he had received the nickname of " Brom Bones," 
by which he was universally known. He was famed for 
great knowledge and skill In horsemanship, being as dex- 
trous on horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at 
all races and cock fights, and, with the ascendency which 

20 bodily strength acquires in rustic life, was the umpire In 
all disputes, setting his hat on one side and giving his 
decisions with an air and tone admitting of no gainsay 
or appeal. He was always ready for either a fight or a 
frolic, but had more mischief than Ill-will in his composl- 

25 tlon, and with all his overbearing roughness there was a 
strong dash of waggish good humor at bottom. He had 
three or four boon companions who regarded him as their 
model, and at the head of whom he scoured the country, 
attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles 

30 around. In cold weather he was distinguished by a 
fur cap surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail, and when 
the folks at a country gathering descried this well-known 
crest at a distance whisking about among a squad of hard 
riders, they always stood by for a squall. Sometimes 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 351 

his crew would be heard dashing along past the farm- 
houses at midnight with whoop and halloo, like a troop 
of Don Cossacks; and the old dames, startled out of their 
sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry 
had clattered by, and then exclaim: "Ay, there goes 5 
Brom Bones and his gang! " The neighbors looked upon 
him wnth a mixture of awe, admiration, and good-will, 
and when any madcap prank or rustic brawl occurred in 
the vicinity, always shook their heads and warranted 
Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. 10 

This rantipole hero had for some time signaled out the 
blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallan- 
tries, and though his amorous toyings were something 
like the gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it 
was whispered that she did not altogether discourage his 15 
hopes. Certain it is, his advances were signals for rival 
candidates to retire who felt no inclination to cross a 
lion in his amours; insomuch that when his horse was 
seen tied to Van Tassal's paling on a Sunday night, a 
sure sign that his master was courting — or, as it is 20 
termed, "sparking" — within, all other suitors passed by 
in despair and carried the war into other quarters. 

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod 
Crane had to contend, and, considering all things, a 
stouter man than he would have shrunk from the com- 25 
petition, and a wiser man would have despaired. He 
had, how'ever, a happy mixture of pliability and perse- 
verance in his nature; he was in form and spirit like 
a supple-jack, yielding but tough; though he bent, he 
never broke, and though he bowed beneath the slightest 30 
pressure, yet the moment it was away — jerk! he was as 
erect and carried his head as high as ever. 

To have taken the field openly against his rival would 
have been madness, for he was not a man to be thwarted 



352 The Sketch Book 

In his amours, any more than that stormy lover, 
Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet 
and gently insinuating manner. Under cover of his 
character of singing-master he made frequent visits at 

5 the farmhouse ; not that he had anything to apprehend 
from the meddlesome interference of parents, which is 
so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Bait 
Van Tassel was an easy, indulgent soul ; he loved his 
daughter better even than his pipe, and, like a reason- 

10 able man and an excellent father, let her have her way in 
everything. His notable little wife, too, had enough to 
do to attend to her housekeeping and manage her poul- 
try; for, as she sagely observed, ducks and geese are 
foolish things and must be looked after, but girls can take 

15 care of themselves. Thus, while the busy dame bustled 
about the house or plied her spinning-wheel at one end 
of the piazza, honest Bait would sit smoking his evening 
pipe at the other, watching the achievements of a little 
wooden warrior who, armed with a sword in each hand, 

20 was most valiantly fighting the wind on the pinnacle of 
the barn. In the meantime Ichabod Vvould carry on his 
suit with his daughter by the side of the spring under 
the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, that 
hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence. 

25 I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed 
and won. To me they have always been matters of rid- 
dle and admiration. Some seem to have but one vulner- 
able point, or door of access, while others have a thousand 
avenues and may be captured in a thousand different 

30 ways. It Is a great triumph of skill to gain the former, 
but a still greater proof of generalship to maintain 
possession of the latter, for the man must battle for 
his fortress at every door and window. He who wins a 
thousand common hearts Is therefore entitled to some 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 353 

renown, but he who keeps undisputed sway over the 
heart of a coquette is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this 
was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones; and 
from the moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, the 
interests of the former evidently declined; his horse was 5 
no longer seen tied at the palings on Sunday nights, and 
a deadly feud gradually arose betw^een him and the pre- 
ceptor of Sleepy Hollow, 

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his 
nature, would fain have carried matters to open war- 10 
fare, and have settled their pretensions to the lady ac- 
cording to the mode of those most concise and simple 
reasoners, the knights-errant of yore — by single combat; 
but Ichabod was too conscious of the superior might of 
his adversary to enter the lists against him. He had 15 
overheard a boast of Bones, that he would " double the 
schoolmaster up and lay him on a shelf of his own school- 
house," and he was too wary to give him an opportu- 
nity. There was something extremely provoking in this 
obstinately pacific system ; it left Brom no alternative 20 
but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his dis- 
position, and to play off boorish practical jokes upon his 
rival. Ichabod became the object of whimsical perse- 
cution to Bones and his gang of rough riders. They 
harried his hitherto peaceful domains, smoked out his 25 
singing school by stopping up the chimney, broke into 
the schoolhouse at night, in spite of its formidable fas- 
tenings of withe and w^indow stakes, and turned every- 
thing topsy-turvy, so that the poor schoolmaster began 
to think all the witches in the country held their meet- 30 
ings there. But what was still more annoying, Brom 
took all opportunities of turning him into ridicule in 
presence of his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog whom 
he taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner, and 



354 The Sketch Book 

introduced as a rival of Ichabod's to instruct her in 
psalmody. 

In this way matters went on for some time without 
producing any material effect on the relative situation 
5 of the contending powers. On a fine autumnal after- 
noon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the 
lofty stool whence he usually watched all the concerns 
of his little literary realm. In his hand he swayed a 
ferule, that scepter of despotic power; the birch of jus- 

10 tice reposed on three nails behind the throne, a constant 
terror to evil-doers; while on the desk before him might 
be seen sundry contraband articles and prohibited weap- 
ons detected upon the persons of idle urchins, such as 
half-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly cages, and 

15 whole legions of rampant little paper gamecocks. Ap- 
parently there had been some appalling act of justice 
recently inflicted, for his scholars were all busily intent 
upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them with 
one eye kept upon the master, and a kind of buzzing 

20 stillness reigned throughout the schoolroom. It was sud- 
denly interrupted by the appearance of a negro in tow 
cloth jacket and trousers, a round-crowned fragment of 
a hat like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back 
of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he managed 

25 with a rope by way of halter. He came clattering up 
to the school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend 
a merrymaking, or *' quilting frolic," to be held that 
evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's; and having delivered 
his message with that air of importance and effort at 

30 fine language which a negro is apt to display on petty 
embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was 
seen scampering away up the hollow, full of the impor- 
tance and hurry of his mission. 

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 355 

schoolroom. The scholars were hurried through their 
lessons without stopping at trifles; those who were nim- 
ble skipped over half with Impunity, and those who were 
tardy had a smart application now and then in the rear 
to quicken their speed or help them over a tall word. 5 
Books were flung aside without being put away on the 
shelves, inkstands were overturned, benches thrown down, 
and the whole school was turned loose an hour before the 
usual time, bursting forth like a legion of young imps, 
yelping and racketing about the green in joy at their 10 
early emancipation. 

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half 
hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best 
and indeed only suit of rusty black, and arranging his 
looks by a bit of broken looking-glass that hung up in 15 
the schoolhouse. That he might make his appearance 
before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he bor- 
rowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domi- 
ciliated, a choleric old Dutchman of the name of Hans 
Van Ripper, and thus gallantly mounted, issued forth 20 
like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it is 
meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give 
some account of the looks and equipments of my hero 
and his steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken- 
down plough horse that had outlived almost every^thing 25 
but his viclousness. He was gaunt and shagged, w^ith a 
ewe neck and a head like a hammer; his rusty mane and 
tail were tangled and knotted with burs; one eye had 
lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral, but the 
other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he 30 
must have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge 
from the name he bore of Gunpowder. He had in fact 
been a favorite steed of his master's, the choleric Van 
Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused very 



35^ The Sketch Book 

probably some of his own spirit into the animal ; for old 
and broken-down as he looked, there was more of the lurk- 
ing devil in him than in any young filly in the country. 
Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He 
5 rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly 
up to the pommel of the saddle, his sharp elbows stuck 
out like grasshoppers', he carried his whip perpendicu- 
larly in his hand like a scepter, and as his horse jogged 
on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping 

10 of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top 
of his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be 
called ; and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out 
almost to the horse's tail. Such was the appearance of 
Ichabod and his steed as they shambled out of the gate 

15 of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an 
apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad day- 
light. 

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day; the sky 
was clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and 

20 golden livery which we always associate with the idea of 
abundance. The forests had put on their sober brown 
and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had 
been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, 
purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began 

25 to make their appearance high in the air ; the bark of 
the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and 
hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at 
intervals from the neighboring stubble-field. 

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. 

30 In the fulness of their revelry they fluttered, chirping 
and frolicking, from bush to bush and tree to tree, capri- 
cious from the very profusion and variety around them. 
There was the honest cock robin, the favorite game of 
stripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous note; and 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 357 

the twittering blackbirds fl3ing in sable clouds; and the 
golden-winged woodpecker, with his crirrson crest, his 
broad black gorget, and splendid plumage; and the cedar 
bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail and its 
little monteiro cap of feathers; and the bluejay, that s 
noisy coxcomb, in his gay light-blue coat and w^hite 
underclothes, screaming and chattering, nodding and bob- 
bing and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms 
with every songster of the grove. 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever 10 
open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged 
with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all 
sides he beheld vast stores of apples; some hanging in 
oppressive opulence on the trees, some gathered into 
baskets and barrels for the market, others heaped up in 15 
rich piles for the cider press. Farther on he beheld 
great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping 
from their leafy coverts and holding out the promise of 
cakes and hasty pudding; and the yellow pumpkins lying 
beneath them, turning up their fair round bellies to the 20 
sun and giving ample prospects of the most luxurious 
of pies; and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, 
breathing the odor of the beehive, and as he beheld them 
soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slap- 
jacks, well buttered and garnished with honey or treacle 25 
by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel. 

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and 
" sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of 
a range of hills which look out upon some of the good- 
liest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually 30 
wheeled his broad disk down into the west. The wade 
bosom of the Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, ex- 
cepting that here and there a gentle undulation waved 
and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant mountain. 



358 The Sketch Book 

A few amber clouds floated in the sky without a breath 
of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden 
tint, changing gradually into a pure apple green, and 
from that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slant- 
5 ing ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices 
that overhung some parts of the river, giving greater 
depth to the dark gray and purple of their rocky sides. 
A sloop was loitering In the distance, dropping slowly 
down with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against 

10 the mast ; and as the reflection of the sky gleamed along 
the still water, It seemed as if the vessel was suspended 
In the air. 

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the 
castle of the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged 

15 with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old 
farmers, a spare leathern-faced race in homespun coats 
and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnifi- 
cent pewter buckles. Their brisk, withered little dames 
In close crimped caps, long-waisted short gowns, home- 

20 spun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions and gay 
calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses 
almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where 
a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock gave 
symptoms of city Innovation. The sons in short square- 

25 skirted coats with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and 
their hair generally queued In the fashion of the times, 
especially if they could procure an eel skin for the pur- 
pose, it being esteemed throughout the country as a potent 
nourisher and strengthener of the hair. 

30 Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, hav- 
ing come to the gathering on his favorite steed Dare- 
devil, a creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, 
and which no one but himself could manage. He was, 
in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals given to all 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 359 

kinds of tricks, which kept the rider in constant risk of 
his neck, for he held a tractable well-broken horse as 
unworthy of a lad of spirit. 

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms 
that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero as he 5 
entered the state parlor of Van Tassel's mansion. Not 
those of the bevy of buxom lasses with their luxurious 
display of red and white, but the ample charms of a gen- 
uine Dutch country tea table in the sumptuous time of 
autumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakes of various 10 
and almost indescribable kinds known only to experi- 
enced Dutch housewives ! There was the doughty dough- 
nut, the tenderer " oly koek," and the crisp and crumbling 
cruller; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and 
honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then 15 
there were apple pies and peach pies and pumpkin pies, 
besides slices of ham and smoked beef, and moreover 
delectable dishes of preserved plums and peaches and 
pears and quinces, not to mention broiled shad and 
roasted chickens, together with bowls of milk and cream, 20 
all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have 
enumerated them, with the motherly teapot sending up 
its clouds of vapor from the midst — Heaven bless the 
mark! I want breath and time to discuss this banquet 
as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story, 25 
Happily Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as 
his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty. 

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart 
dilated in proportion as his skin was filled with good 
cheer, and whose spirits rose with eating as some men's 30 
do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling his large 
eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possi- 
bility that he might one day be lord of all this scene 
of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then, 



360 The Sketch Book 

he thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the old 
schoolhouse, snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van 
Ripper and every other niggardly patron, and kick any 
itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call 
5 him comrade! 

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests 
with a face dilated with content and good-humor, round 
and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable atten- 
tions w^ere brief but expressive, being confined to a shake 

10 of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a 
pressing invitation to fall to and help themselves. 

And now the sound of the music from the common 
room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician 
was an old gray-headed negro, who had been the itiner- 

15 ant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a 
century. His instrument was as old and battered as 
himself. The greater part of the time he scraped on 
two or three strings, accompanying every movement of 
the bow with a motion of the head ; bowing almost to 

20 the ground, and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh 
couple were to start. 

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as 
upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fiber about 
him was idle ; and to have seen his loosely hung frame 

25 in full motion and clattering about the room, you would 
have thought Saint Vitus himself, that blessed patron of 
the dance, was figuring before you in person. He was 
the admiration of all the negroes, who, having gathered 
of all ages and sizes from the farm and neighborhood, 

30 stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every 
door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, 
rolling their white eyeballs, and showing grinning rows 
of ivory from ear to ear. How could the flogger of 
urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous? the lady 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 361 

of his heart \\'as his partner in the dance, and smiling 
graciously in reply to all his amorous oglings; while 
Brom Bones, sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat 
brooding by himself in one corner. 

When the dance was at an end Ichabod was attracted 5 
to a knot of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, 
sat smoking at one end of the piazza, gossiping over 
former times and drawing out long stories about the war. 

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speak- 
ing, w^as one of those highly favored places which abound 10 
with chronicle and great men. The British and Ameri- 
can line had run near it during the war; it had there- 
fore been the scene of marauding, and infested with 
refugees, cowboys, and all kinds of border chivalry. 
Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each story- 15 
teller to dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction, 
and in the indistinctness of his recollection to make him- 
self the hero of every exploit. 

There was the story of Doffue IMartling, a large, blue- 
bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frig- 20 
ate with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breast- 
work, only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. 
And there was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, — 
being too rich a mynheer to be lightly mentioned, — who, 
in the Battle of White Plains, being an excellent master 25 
of defence, parried a musket ball with a small sword, 
insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade 
and glance ofi at the hilt; in proof of which he was 
ready at any time to show the sword, with the hilt a 
little bent. There were several more that had been 30 
equally great in the field, not one of whom but was per- 
suaded that he had a considerable hand in bringing the 
war to a happy termination. 

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and 



362 The Sketch Book 

apparitions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich 
in legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and 
superstitions thrive best in these sheltered, long-settled 
retreats, but are trampled under foot by the shifting 
5 throng that forms the population of most of our country 
places. Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts 
in most of our villages, for they have scarcely had time 
to finish their first nap and turn themselves in their 
graves, before their surviving friends have traveled away 

10 from the neighborhood ; so that when they turn out at 
night to walk their rounds they have no acquaintance 
left to call upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so 
seldom hear of ghosts except in our long-established 
Dutch communities. 

15 The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of 
supernatural stories in these parts was doubtless owing 
to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion 
in the very air that blew from that. haunted region; it 
breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies 

20 infecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow 
people were present at Van Tassel's, and as usual were 
doling out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dis- 
mal tales were told about funeral trains and mourning 
cries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree 

25 where the unfortunate Major Andre was taken, and 
which stood in the neighborhood. Some mention was 
made also of the woman in white that haunted the dark 
glen at Raven Rock and was often heard to shriek on 
winter nights before a storm, having perished there in 

30 the snow. The chief part of the stories, however, turned 
upon the favorite specter of Sleepy Hollow, the headless 
horseman, who had been heard several times of late 
patrolling the country, and, it was said, tethered his 
horse nightly among the graves in the churchyard. 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 363 

The sequestered situation of this church seems always 
to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It 
stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust trees and lofty 
elms, from among which its decent whitewashed walls 
shine modestly forth like Christian purity beaming 5 
through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope de- 
scends from it to a silver sheet of water bordered by 
high trees, between which peeps may be caught at the 
blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown 
yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one 10 
would think that there at least the dead might rest in 
peace. On one side of the church extends a wide, woody 
dell, along which raves a large brook among broken 
rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep, black 
part of the stream, not far from the church, was 15 
formerly thrown a wooden bridge. The road that led to 
it and the bridge itself were thickly shaded by overhang- 
ing trees, which cast a gloom about it even in the day- 
time, but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. This 
was one of the favorite haunts of the headless horseman, 20 
and the place where he was most frequently encountered. 
The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical dis- 
believer in ghosts, how he met the horseman returning 
from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged 
to get up behind him ; how they galloped over bush and 25 
brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge, 
when the horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, 
threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over 
the tree tops with a clap of thunder. 

This story was immediately matched by a thrice mar- 30 
velous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the 
galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that 
on returning one night from the neighboring village of 
Sing Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper, 



364 The Sketch Book 

that he had offered to race with him for a bowl of punch, 
and should have won It too, — for Daredevil beat the 
goblin horse all hollow, — but just as they came to the 
church bridge the Hessian bolted, and vanished In a 

5 flash of fire. 

All these tales, told In that drowsy undertone with 
which men talk In the dark, the countenances of the 
listeners only now and then receiving a casual gleam 
from the glare of a pipe, sank deep in the mind of Ichabod. 

10 He repaid them In kind with large extracts from his In- 
valuable author. Cotton Mather, and added many mar- 
velous events that had taken place In his native State of 
Connecticut, and fearful sights which he had seen in 
his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow. 

15 The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers 
gathered together their families In their wagons, and 
were heard for some time rattling along the hollow roads 
and over the distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted 
on pillions behind their favorite swains, and their llght- 

20 hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed 
along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter 
until they gradually died away — and the late scene of 
noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod 
only lingered behind, according to the custom of coun- 

25 try lovers, to have a tete-a-tete with the heiress, fully 
convinced that he was now on the high road to success. 
What passed at this Interview I will not pretend to say, 
for In fact I do not know. Something, however, I fear 
me, must have gone wTong, for he certainly sallied forth 

30 after no very great Interval with an air quite desolate 
and chopfallen. Oh, these women! these women! 
Could that girl have been playing off any of her coquettish 
tricks? Was her encouragement of the poor pedagogue 
all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his rival? 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 365 

Heaven only knows, not I ! Let it suffice to say, Ichabod 
stole forth with the air of one who had been sacking a 
henroost rather than a fair lady's heart. Without look- 
ing to the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth 
on which he had so often gloated, he went straight to the 5 
stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks roused 
his steed most uncourteously from the comfortable quar- 
ters in which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of moun- 
tains of corn and oats and whole valleys of timothy and 
clover. 10 

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, 
heavy-hearted and crestfallen, pursued his travel home- 
wards along the sides of the lofty hills w^hich rise above 
Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in 
the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far 15 
below him the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indis- 
tinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall mast 
of a sloop riding quietly at anchor under the land. In 
the dead hush of midnight he could even hear the bark- 
ing of the watchdog from the opposite shore of the Hud- 20 
son, but it was so vague and faint as only to give an 
idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man. 
Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock 
accidentally awakened w^ould sound far, far off, from 
some farmhouse away among the hills — but it was like 25 
a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred 
near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a 
cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bullfrog from 
a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably and 
turning suddenly in his bed. 30 

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard 
in the afternoon now came crowding upon his recollec- 
tion. The night grew darker and darker, the stars seemed 
to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasion- 



366 The Sketch Book 

ally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so 
lonely and dismal. He was,' moreover, approaching the 
very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories 
had been laid. In the center of the road stood an enor- 
5 mous tulip tree which towered like a giant above all the 
other trees of the neighborhood and formed a kind of 
landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large 
enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down 
almost to the earth and rising again into the air. It was 

10 connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate 
Andre, who had been taken prisoner hard by, and was 
universally known by the name of Major Andre's tree. 
The common people regarded it with a mixture of respect 
and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of 

15 its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales of 

strange sights and doleful lamentations told concerning It. 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree he began to 

whistle. He thought his whistle was answered — it was 

but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. 

20 As he approached a little nearer he thought he saw 
something white hanging in the midst of the tree; he 
paused and ceased whistling; but on looking more nar- 
rowly perceived that it was a place where the tree had 
been scathed by lightning and the white wood laid bare. 

25 Suddenly he heard a groan ; his teeth chattered and his 
knees smote against the saddle; it was but the rubbing 
of one huge bough upon another as they were swayed 
about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but 
new perils lay before him. 

30 About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook 
crossed the road and ran into a marshy and thickly 
wooded glen known by the name of Wiley's Swamp. A 
few rough logs laid side by side served for a bridge over 
this stream. On that side of the road where the brook 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 367 

entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts matted 
thick with wild grapevines threw a cavernous gloom over 
it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was 
at this identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was 
captured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and 5 
vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised 
him. This has ever since been considered a haunted 
stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who 
has to pass it alone after dark. 

As he ^approached the stream his heart began to 10 
thump. He summoned up, however, all his resolution, 
gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and 
attempted to dash briskly across the bridge ; but instead 
of starting forward, the perverse old animal made a 
lateral movement and ran broadside against the fence. 15 
Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked 
the reins on the other side and kicked lustily with the 
contrary foot. It was all in vain. His steed started, it 
is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of 
the road into a thicket of brambles and alder bushes. 20 
The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel 
upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed 
forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand 
just by the bridge with a suddenness that had nearly 
sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this 25 
moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught 
the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of 
the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld some- 
thing huge, misshapen, black, and towering. It stirred 
not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom like some 30 
gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveler. 

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his 
head with terror. What was to be done? To turn and 
fly was now too late, and besides, what chance was there 



368 The Sketch Book 

of escaping ghost or gobhn, if such it was, which could 
ride upon the wings of the wind? Summoning up, there- 
fore, a show of courage, he demanded in stammering 
accents, "Who are you?" He received no reply. He 
5 repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. Still 
there was no answer. Once more he cudgeled the sides 
of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, 
broke forth with involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. 
Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in 

10 motion, and with a scramble and a bound stood at once 
in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark 
and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in 
some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horse- 
man of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse 

15 of powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or 
sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jog- 
ging along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had 
now got over his fright and waywardness. 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight 

20 companion, and bethought himself of the adventure of 
Brom Bones with the galloping Hessian, now quickened 
his steed in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, 
however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod 
pulled up and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind ; 

25 the other did the same. His heart began to sink within 
him. He endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but his 
parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he 
could not utter a stave. There was something in the 
moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious compan- 

30 ion that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fear- 
fully accounted for. On mounting a rising ground which 
brought the figure of his fellow-traveler in relief against 
the sky, gigantic in height and mufl^ed in a cloak, Ichabod 
was horror-struck on perceiving that he was headless! 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 369 

But his horror was still more increased on observing that 
the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, 
was carried before him on the pommel of the saddle. 
His terror rose to desperation. He rained a shower of 
kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping by a sudden 5 
movement to give his companion the slip — but the specter 
started full jump w^ith him. Away then they dashed, 
through thick and thin, stones flying and sparks flashing 
at every boimd. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in 
the air as he stretched his long, lank body away over his 10 
horse's head in the eagerness of his flight. 

They had now reached the road which turns off to 
Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed 
wnth a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an oppo- 
site turn and plunged headlong down hill to the left. 15 
This road leads through a sandy hollow, shaded by 
trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the 
bridge famous in goblin story, and just beyond swells 
the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed church. 

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful 20 
rider an apparent advantage in the chase; but just as he 
had got halfway through the hollow, the girths of the sad- 
dle gave way, and he felt it slipping from under him. He 
seized it by the pommel and endeavored to hold it firm, 
but in vain, and had just time to save himself by clasp- 25 
ing old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle 
fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot 
by his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van 
Ripper's wrath passed across his mind, for it was his 
Sunday saddle; but this was no time for petty fears; 30 
the goblin was hard on his haunches, and — unskilful rider 
that he was! — he had much ado to maintain his seat, 
sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, 
and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of .his horse's 



370 The Sketch Book 

backbone with a violence that he verily feared would 
cleave him asunder. 

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the 
hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The waver- 
5 ing reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook 
told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of 
the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He 
recollected the place where Brom Bones' ghostly com- 
petitor had disappeared. " If I can but reach that 

10 bridge," thought Ichabod, '' I am safe." Just then he 
heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind 
him; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. An- 
other -convulsive kick in the ribs and old Gunpowder 
sprang upon the bridge, he thundered over the resounding 

15 planks, he gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod 
cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, 
according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. 
Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in 
the very act of liurling his head at hiin. Ichabod en- 

20 deavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It 
encountered his cranium wnth a tremendous crash ; he 
was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpewder, 
the black steed, and the goblin rider passed by like a 
whirlwind. 

25 The next morning the old horse was found without his 
saddle and with the bridle under his feet, soberly crop- 
ping the grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not make 
his appearance at breakfast ; dinner-hour came, but no 
Ichabod. The boys assembled at the schoolhouse and 

30 strolled idly about the banks of the brook, but no school- 
master. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some un- 
easiness about the fate of poor Ichabod and his saddle. 
An inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investiga- 
tion they came upon his traces. In one part of the road 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 371 

leading to the church was found the saddle trampled in 
the dirt. The tracks of horses' hoofs deeplj' dented in the 
road, and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the 
bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of 
the brook where the water ran deep and black, was found 5 
the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it 
a shattered pumpkin. 

The brook was searched, but the body of the school- 
master w^as not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as 
executor of his estate, examined the bundle which con- 10 
tained all his worldly effects. They consisted of two 
shirts and a half, two stocks for the neck, a pair or tv/o 
of worsted stockings, an old pair of corduroy small- 
clothes, a rusty razor, a book of psalm tunes full of 
dogs' ears, and a broken pitch pipe. As to the books 13 
and furniture of the schoolhouse, they belonged to the 
community, excepting Cotton Mather's History of Witch- 
craft, SL Neiv England Almanac, and a book of dreams 
and fortune telling; in which last was a sheet of foolscap 
much scribbled and blotted in several fruitless attempts 20 
to make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van 
Tassel. These magic books and the poetic scrkwl were 
forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans Van Ripper, 
who from that time forward determined to send his chil- 
dren no more to school, observing that he never knew 25 
any good come of this same reading and writing. What- 
ever money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had re- 
ceived his quarter's pay but a day or two before, he must 
have had about his person at the time of his disappear- 
ance. 30 

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the 
church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and 
gossips were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, 
and at the spot wliere the hat and pumpkin had been 



372 The Sketch Book 

found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole 
budget of others, were called to mind ; and when they 
had diligently considered them all and compared them 
with the symptoms of the present case, they shook their 
5 heads and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been 
carried of^ by the galloping Hessian. As he was a bach- 
elor and in nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head any 
more about him. The school was removed to a differ- 
ent quarter of the hollow and another pedagogue reigned 

10 in his stead. 

It is true, an old farmer who had been down to New 
York on a visit several years after, and from whom this 
account of the ghostly adventure was received, brought 
home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive, 

15 that he had left the neighborhood partly through fear of 
the goblin and Hans Van Ripper and partly in mortifica- 
tion at having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress, 
that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the 
country, had kept school and studied law at the same 

20 time, had been admitted to the bar, turned politician, 
electioneered, written for the newspapers, and finally had 
been m'^de a justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom 
Bones too, who shortly after his rival's disappearance 
conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, 

25 was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the 
story of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a 
hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin, which led 
some to suspect that he knew more about the matter than 
he chose to tell. 

30 The old country wives, however, who are the best 
judges of these matters, maintain to this day that Icha- 
bod was spirited away by supernatural means; and it is 
a favorite story often told about the neighborhood round 
the winter evening fire. The bridge became more than 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 373 

ever an object of superstitious awe, and that may be the 
reason why the road has been altered of late years so as 
to approach the church by the border of the mill-pond. 
The schoolhouse being deserted, soon fell to decay, and 
was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortu- 
nate pedagogue; and the ploughboy loitering homeward 
of a still summ.er evening has often fancied his voice at 
a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the 
tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. 



POSTSCRIPT 

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKER- 
BOCKER 

The preceding tale is given almost in the precise words in lO 
which I heard it related at a corporation meeting of the ancient 
city of Manhattoes, at which were present many of its sagest 
and most illustrious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, 
shabby, gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt clothes, with 
a sadly humorous face; and one whom I strongly suspected 15 
of being poor — he made such efforts to be entertaining. When 
his story was concluded there was much laughter and approba- 
tion, particularly from two or three deputy aldermen who had 
been asleep a greater part of the time. There was, however, 
one tall, dry-looking old gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, 20 
who maintained a grave and rather severe face throughout, 
now and then folding his arms, inclining his head, and looking 
down upon the floor, as if turning a doubt over in his mind. He 
was one of your wary men who never laugh but upon good 
grounds — when they have reason and the law on their side. 25 
When the mirth of the rest of the company had subsided and 
silence was restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his 
chair, and sticking the other akimbo, demanded, with a slight 
but exceedingly sage motion of the head and contraction of the 
brow, what was the moral of the story and what it went to 30 
prove. 

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his 



374 The Sketch Book 



lips as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked 
at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and lowering 
the glass slowly to the table, observed that the story was in- 
tended most logically to prove: 
5 " That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and 
pleasures — provided we will but take a joke as we find it; 

" That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers is 
likely to have rough riding of it; 

" Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of 
10 a Dutch heiress is a certain step to high preferment in the 
state." 

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer 
after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination 
of the syllogism; while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt 
15 eyed him with something of a triumphant leer. At length he 
observed that all this was very well, but still he thought the 
story a little on the extravagant — there were one or two points 
on which he had his doubts, 

" Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, " as to that matter, I 
20 don't believe one-half of it myself." 



L'ENVOY^ 

Go, little booke, God send thee good passage, 
And specially let this be thy prayere, 
Unto them all that thee will read or hear, 
Where thou art wrong, after their help to call. 
Thee to correct in any part or all. 

Chaucer's Belle Dame sans Merc'ie. 

In concluding a second volume of the Sketch-Book the 
author cannot but express his deep sense of the indulgence 
with which his first has been received, and of the liberal 
disposition that has been evinced to treat him with kind- 
ness as a stranger. Even the critics, whatever may be s 
said of them by others, he has found to be a singularly 
gentle and good-natured race. It is true that each has 
in turn objected to some one or two articles, and that 
these individual exceptions taken in the aggregate would 
amount almost to a total condemnation of his work ; but lo 
then he has been consoled by observing that what one has 
particularly censured another has as particularly praised ; 
and thus, the encomiums being set oft against the objec- 
tions, he finds his work upon the whole commended far 
beyond its deserts. 15 

He is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting much of 
this kind favor by not following the counsel that has been 
liberally bestowed upon him, for where abundance of 
valuable advice is given gratis it miay seem a man's 
own fault if he should go astray. He can only say, in 20 
^ Closing the second volume of the London edition. 
375 



376 The Sketch Book 

his vindication, that he faithfully determined for a time 
to govern himself in his second volume by the opinions 
passed upon his first, but he was soon brought to a 
stand by the contrariety of excellent counsel. One kindly 
5 advised him to avoid the ludicrous, another to shun the 
pathetic, a third assured him that he was tolerable at 
description, but cautioned him to leave narrative alone, 
while a fourth declared that he had a very pretty knack 
at turning a story and was really entertaining when in a 

10 pensive mood, but was grievously mistaken if he imag- 
ined himself to possess a spirit of humor. 

Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, who each 
in turn closed some particular path, but left him all the 
world beside to range in, he found that to follow all 

15 their counsels would, in fact, be to stand still. He re- 
mained for a time sadly embarrassed, when all at once the 
thought struck him to ramble on as he had begun; that 
his work being miscellaneous and written for different 
humors, it could not be expected that any one would be 

2C pleased with the whole, but that if it should contain 
something to suit each reader his end would be completely 
answered. Few guests sit down to a varied table with 
an equal appetite for every dish. One has an elegant 
horror of a roasted pig, another holds a curry or a devil 

25 in utter abomination, a third cannot tolerate the ancient 
flavor of venison and wild fowl, and a fourth, of truly 
masculine stomach, looks with sovereign contempt on 
those knickknacks here and there dished up for the ladies. 
Thus each article is condemned in its turn, and yet, amidst 

30 this variety of appetites seldom does a dish go away 
from the table without being tasted and relished by some 
one or other of the guests. 

With these considera^ons he ventures to serve up this 
second volume in the same heterogeneous way with his 



L'envoy 377 

first, simply requesting the reader, if he should find here 
and there something to please him, to rest assured that 
it was written expressly for intelligent readers like him- 
self; but entreating him, should he find anything to 
dislike, to tolerate it as one of those articles which the 5 
author has been obliged to write for readers of a less 
refined taste. 

To be serious, the author is conscious of the numer- 
ous faults and imperfections of his work, and well aware 
how little he is disciplined and accomplished in the arts 10 
of authorship. His deficiencies are also increased by a 
diffidence arising from his peculiar situation. He finds 
himself writing in a strange land, and appearing before a 
public which he has been accustomed from childhood to 
regard with the highest feelings of awe and reverence. 15 
He is full of solicitude to deserve their approbation, yet 
finds that very solicitude continually embarrassing his 
powers and depriving him of that ease and confidence 
which are necessary to successful exertion. Still the 
kindness with which he is treated encourages him to go 20 
on, hoping that in time he may acquire a steadier foot- 
ing; and thus he proceeds, half venturing, half shrinking, 
surprised at his own good fortune and wondering at his 
own temerity. 



APPENDIX 



Notes Concerning Westminster Abbey 

Toward the end of the sixth century, when Britain, under 
the dominion of the Saxons, was in a state of barbarism and 
idolatry. Pope Gregory the Great, struck with the beauty of 
some Anglo-Saxon youths exposed for sale in the market place 
5 at Rome, conceived a fancy for the race, and determined to 
send missionaries to preach the gospel among these comely but 
benighted islanders. He was encouraged to this by learning 
that Ethelbert, king of Kent and the most potent of the Anglo- 
Saxon princes, had married Bertha, a Christian princess, only 

ID daughter of the king of Paris, and that she was allowed by 
stipulation the full exercise of her religion. 

The shrewd pontiff knew the influence of the sex in matters 
of religious faith. He forthwith despatched Augustine, a Ro- 
man monk, with forty associates to the court of Ethelbert at Can- 

15 terbury, to effect the conversion of the king and to obtain 
through him a foothold in the island. 

Ethelbert received them warily and held a conference in the 
open air, being distrustful of foreign priestcraft and fearful of 
spells and magic. They ultimately succeeded in making him 

20 as good a Christian as his wife. The conversion of the king 
of course produced the conversion of his loyal subjects- The 
zeal and success of Augustine were rewarded by his being made 
Archbishop of Canterbury and being endowed with authority 
over all the British churches. 

25 One of the most prominent converts was Segebert, or Sebert, 
king of the East Saxons, a nephew of Ethelbert. He reigned 
at London, of which Mellitus, one of the Roman monks who 
had come over with Augustine, was made bishop. 

Sebert, in 605, in his religious zeal, founded a monastery by 

30 the riverside to the west of the city, on the ruins of a temple 
of Apollo, being, in fact, the origin of the present pile of West- 

378 



Appendix 379 



minster Abbey. Great preparations were made for the conse- 
cration of the church, which was to be dedicated to St. Peter. 
On the morning of the appointed day, Mellitus, the bishop, 
proceeded with great pomp and solemnity to perform the cere- 
mony. On approaching the edifice he was met by a fisherman, 5 
who informed him that it was needless to proceed as the cere- 
mony was over. The bishop stared with surprise, when the 
fisherman went on to relate that the night before, as he was in 
his boat on the Thames, St. Peter appeared to him and told 
him that he intended to consecrate the church himself that 10 
very night. The apostle accordingly went into the church, 
which suddenly became illuminated. The ceremony was per- 
formed in sumptuous style, accompanied by strains of heavenly 
music and clouds of fragrant incense. After this the apostle 
came into the boat and ordered the fisherman to cast his net. 15 
He did so, and had a miraculous draught of fishes, one of 
which he was commanded to present to the bishop, and to 
signify to him that the apostle had relieved him from the 
necessity of consecrating the church. 

Mellitus was a wary man, slow of belief, and required con- 20 
firmation of the fisherman's tale. He opened the church doors 
and beheld wax candles, crosses, holy water, oil sprinkled in 
various places, and various other traces of a grand ceremonial. 
If he had still any lingering doubts, they were completely 
removed on the fisherman's producing the identical fish which 25 
he had been ordered by the apostle to present to him. To 
resist this would have been to resist ocular demonstration. 
The good bishop accordingly was convinced that the church 
had actually been consecrated by St. Peter in person, so he 
reverently abstained from proceeding further in the business. 30 

The foregoing tradition is said to be the reason why King 
Edward the Confessor chose this place as the site of a reli- 
gious house which he meant to endow. He pulled down the 
old church and built another in its place in 1045. In this his 
remains were deposited in a magnificent shrine. 35 

The sacred edifice again underwent modifications, if not a 
reconstruction, by Henry III., in 1220, and began to assume 
its present appearance. 

Under Henry VIII. it lost its conventual character, that 
monarch turning the monks away and seizing upon the rev- 40 
enues. 



380 Appendix 



Relics of Edward the Confessor 

A curious narrative was printed in 1688 by one of the chor- 
isters of the cathedral, who appears to have been the Paul Pry 
of the sacred edifice, giving an account of his rummaging 
among the bones of Edward the Confessor, after they had 
5 quietly reposed in their sepulcher upwards of six hundred 
years, and of his drawing forth the crucifix and golden chain 
of the deceased monarch. During eighteen years that he had 
officiated in the choir, it had been a common tradition, he says, 
among his brother choristers and the gray-headed servants of 

10 the abbey, that the body of King Edward was deposited in a 
kind of chest, or coffin, which was indistinctly seen in the upper 
part of the shrine erected to his memory. None of the abbey 
gossips, however, had ventured upon a nearer inspection, until 
the worthy narrator, to gratify his curiosity, mounted to the cof- 

15 fin by the aid of a ladder, and found it to be made of wood, 
apparently very strong and firm, being secured by bands of 
iron. 

Subsequently, in 1685, on taking down the scaffolding used 
in the coronation of James II., the coffin was found to be 

20 broken, a hole appearing in the lid, probably made through 
accident by the workmen. No one ventured, however, to med- 
dle with the sacred depository of royal dust, until, several 
weeks afterwards, the circumstance came to the knowledge of 
the aforesaid chorister. He forthwith repaired to the abbey 

25 in company with two friends of congenial tastes who were 
desirous of inspecting the tombs. Procuring a ladder he again 
mounted to the coffin, and found, as had been represented, a 
hole in the lid about six inches long and four inches broad, just 
in front of the left breast. Thrusting in his hand, and groping 

30 among the bones, he drew from underneath the shoulder a 
crucifix richly adorned and enameled, affixed to a gold chain 
twenty-four inches long. These he showed to his inquisitive 
friends, who were equally surprised with himself. 

" At the time," says he, " when I took the cross and chain 

35 out of the coffin, / dre'w the head to the hole and <vieaved it, 
being very sound and firm, with the upper and nether jaws 
whole and full of teeth, and a list of gold above an inch broad, 
in the nature of a coronet, surrounding the temples. There 



Appendix 381 

was also in the coffin white linen and gold-colored flowered 
silk that looked indifferent fresh, but the least stress put thereto 
showed it was well-nigh perished. There were all his bones, 
and much dust likewise, which I left as I found." 

It is difficult to conceive a more grotesque lesson to human 5 
pride than the skull of Edward the Confessor thus irreverently- 
pulled about in its coffin by a prying chorister, and brought to 
grin face to face with him through a hole in the lid! 

Having satisfied his curiosity, the chorister put the crucifix 
and chain back again into the coffin, and sought the dean, to 10 
apprise him of his discovery. The dean not being accessible 
at the time, and fearing that the " holy treasure " might be 
taken away by other hands, he got a brother chorister to 
accompany him to the shrine about two or three hours after- 
wards, and in his presence again drew forth the relics- These 15 
he afterwards delivered on his knees to King James. The 
king subsequently had the old coffin enclosed in a new one 
of great strength, " each plank being two inches thick and 
cramped together with large iron wedges, where it now remains 
(1688) as a testimony of his pious care, that no abuse might be 20 
offered to the sacred ashes therein deposited." 

As the history of this shrine is full of moral, I subjoin a 
description of it in modern times. " The solitary and forlorn 
shrine," says a British writer, " now stands a mere skeleton of 
what it was. A few faint traces of its sparkling decorations 25 
inlaid on solid mortar catch the rays of the sun, forever set 
on its splendor. . . . Only two of the spiral pillars remain. 
The wooden Ionic top is much broken and covered with dust. 
The mosaic is picked away in every part within reach ; only 
the lozenges of about a foot square and five circular pieces of 30 
the rich marble remain." — Malcolm, Lond., rediv. 



Inscription on a Monument Alluded to in the Sketch 

Here lyes the Loyal Duke of Newcastle, and his Duchess 
his second wife, by whom he had no issue. Her name was 
Margaret Lucas, youngest sister to the Lord Lucas of Colches- 
ter, a noble family; for all the brothers were valiant, and all 35 
the sisters virtuous. This Duchess was a wise, witty, and 



382 Appendix 

learned lady, which her many Bookes do well testify: she was 
a most virtuous, and loving and careful wife, and was with her 
lord all the time of his banishment and miseries, and when he 
came home, never parted from him in his solitary retirement. 



5 In the winter time, when the days are short, the service in 
the afternoon is performed by the light of tapers. The effect 
is fine of the choir partially lighted up, while the main body of 
the cathedral and the transepts are in profound and cavernous 
darkness. The white dresses of the choristers gleam amidst 

10 the deep brown of the open slats and canopies. The partial 
illumination makes enormous shadows from columns and 
screens, and darting into the surrounding gloom catches here 
and there upon a sepulchral decoration or monumental effigy. 
The swelling notes of the organ accord well with the scene. 

15 When the service is over, the dean is lighted to his dwelling 
in the old conventual part of the pile by the boys of the choir 
in their white dresses, bearing tapers, and the procession passes 
through the abbey and along the shadowy cloisters, lighting up 
angles and arches and grim sepulchral monuments, and leaving 

20 all behind in darkness. 

On entering the cloisters at night from what is called the 
Dean's Yard, the eye ranging through a dark vaulted passage 
catches a distant view of a white marble figure reclining on a 
tomb, on which a strong glare thrown by a gas light has quite 

25 a spectral effect. It is a mural monument of one of the Pult- 
neys. 



NOTES AND COMMENT 



NOTES AND COMMENT 

(Heavy numerals refer to page; light ones to line) 
The Author's Account of Himself 

This introductory sketch suggests the first paper of the 
Spectator, written by Addison, which contains veiled autobio- 
graphical touches. In Irving's account, however, the personal 
details are truer to literal fact. A careful reading will reveal 
much of the author's character as man and boy — his love of 
roving and travel, his imaginative tendency, his fondness for 
the beautiful and picturesque, particularly all that is enriched 
by association with the past, and his propensity for observation 
and reflection. 

II, 16-17. Terra incognita: Latin for "unknown country." 

14, II. St. Peter's, or the Coliseum. St. Peter's Cathedral, 
in Rome, is the largest in the world. The Coliseum (or 
Colosseum), likewise in Rome, is the ruin of an ancient amphi- 
theater of huge proportions. 

14, 12. The Cascade of Terni. This beautiful waterfall is 
in Perugia, Italy. 

a. One of the surest means of learning to appreciate Irving's 
style is to read some of the finer passages aloud. For example, 
if one depends upon the eye alone, he is likely to miss the full 
effect of the rhythm and harmony of such phrases a» " Her 
mighty lakes, like oceans of liquid silver," etc., in the second 
paragraph on page 12. This simple aid to appreciation is 
applicable to passages of every character — descriptive, narrative, 
humorous, or reflective — and should not be neglected. 

b. Note the characteristic touch of kindly irony in the sentence 
beginning "A great man of Europe, thought I" (page 13, line 

14)- 

c. Note carefully what Irving says in the sentence beginning 
"I have wandered," etc. (page 13, line 24) and in the two 
sentences following. These summarize the method and spirit 
of The Sketch Book. 

385 



386 Notes and Comment 



The Voyage 

When Irving wrote this sketch, he had made two voyages 
to England, one in 1804, the other in 1815. The essay is not 
to be taken too literally as a record of either voyage, but is 
probably the result of impressions received during both. Irving's 
point of view is that of an observer who is easily stimulated 
to reverie by what he sees. 

15, 1. The long voyage. On his first voyage Irving spent 
six weeks aboard ship; on his second almost as long a time. 

15, 16. "A lengthening chain": quoted from Goldsmith's 
The Traveler, line 10: "And drag at each remove a lengthen- 
ing chain." 

a. Do you find a passage in which is shown a tendency to 
indulge in somewhat sentimental reflection? one in which the 
descriptive details are tinged with sentiment? Find other pas- 
sages in which these characteristics are shown. Note in this 
connection that the short paragraph beginning with line 23 
on page 20 indicates the spirit of the essay. 

b. In the description of the storm on page 19, what details 
has the author selected? Notice the descriptive force of single 
concrete words such as " sullen " and " quivered." Read the 
passage aloud. Do the sound of the words and the movement 
of the sentences suggest the fury of the storm? 

c. Does the captain's story seem to you to be told as a sailor 
would tell it? Does the essay as a whole give the reader the 
impression of being at sea? 

d. Where in this essay do you see any evidence of Irving's 
ready human sympathy? 

e. Do you think the ending effective? Irving was not an 
entire stranger in the land. What purpose might he have had 
in so representing himself? 

Rip Van Winkle 

In this famous story we have a typical expression of one side 
of Irving's genius. We may note first of all the sheer ability 
to tell a good story, the handling of events and persons in such 
a manner as to keep the reader's interest constantly alert; then 



Notes and Comment 387 

the skilful description of scenes that give the proper background 
and atmosphere; then the humorous, sympathetic delineation of 
character; and finally the blending of ironic humor with the 
suggestive treatment of the supernatural. In regard to the last 
mentioned quality, compare Rip Ian PVinkle with one of Poe's 
stories; e.g., The Fall of the House of Usher or The T ell- 
Tale Heart. 

23, 13. Black-letter: the Gothic or Old English style of type 
used in the earliest printed books. 

24, 21. Waterloo Medal: a silver medal given to any person 
who served under the English flag in the engagements of June 
16, 17, and i8, 1815; the last day is the date of the Battle of 
Waterloo. — Queen Anne's Farthing. It has long been a com- 
mon supposition that the farthings coined in Queen Anne's 
reign, on which, at the suggestion of Dean Swift, contemporary 
history was commemorated, were very few in number and 
hence very rare. 

25, 13. Peter Stuyvesant: the last Dutch governor of New 
York. For a humorous delineation of him see the History of 
Neiv York by " Diedrich Knickerbocker." 

25, 26, Fort Christina: a Swedish stronghold on the Dela- 
ware, which Stuyvesant seized in 1655. For an acoynt of the 

siege see Vol. V, ch. viii of the Knickerbocker History. 

27, 24. Galligaskins: loose, baggy breeches. 

28, 33. George the Third: king of England from 1760 to 
1820. 

29, 12. Junto: strictly, an assembly that secretly deliberates 
upon affairs of government. 

31, 27. Jerkin: a jacket or waistcoat. 

32, 29-30. Sugar-loaf hat: a high conical hat resembling in 
shape a loaf of sugar. 

32, 34. Hanger: a short cutlass. 

33, I. Roses: rosettes. 

33, 26. Hollands: Holland gin. 

37, 6. A red night-cap: the liberty-cap; such as is often seen 
in the representation of the Goddess of Liberty. 

37, 30. Babylonish jargon: Babel-like, confused jargon. For 
the story of the confusion of tongues see Genesis xi. 

38, 7. Federal or Democrat. The Federalists, the party of 
Washington and Hamilton, strongly favored a centralized gov- 
ernment; the Democrats (first called Republicans, and later 



388 Notes and Comment 

Democratic-Republicans) desired the individual states to have 
greater powers of local government. Jefferson was their most 
prominent representative. 

38, 21-22. "A tory! a tory." The word was used in Amer- 
ica at the time of the Revolution to signify a sympathizer with 
the British cause. 

39, 6-7. Stony Point. The American fort at Stony Point, 
on the west bank of the Hudson, was captured by the British 
in 1779, and retaken the same year by the Americans under 
General Anthony Wayne. 

39, 8. Anthony's Nose: a promontory near the southern 
entrance to the Highlands of the Hudson. 

41, 29-30. Hendrick Hudson: Henry Hudson, a celebrated 
English navigator, who, in the service of the Dutch East India 
Company, explored the Hudson River in September, 1609. 

43, 29. Frederick der Rothbart: Frederick Barbarossa 
("Red Beard"), Emperor of Germany from 1155 to ii89(?). 
According to legend he never died, but sleeps in the Kyffhauser- 
berg, seated at a table with six of his knights; at the proper 
time he will rouse from his sleep to free Germany from 
bondage. 

a. Why is it well for the story to begin with a description 
of the mountains? What striking details are mentioned? In 
the description of the Dutch village, in the next paragraph, 
only a few details are given. Are they well chosen? Why? 

b. In the description of Rip, on pages 26-27, what is Irving's 
feeling toward Rip's shiftlessness? Note the pervading spirit 
of indolence in the description. Do the character-descriptions 
seem to you to be introduced at the best place? Why? 

c. The second paragraph on page 29 suggests the manner 
of the Knickerbocker History. 

d. Read aloud the long simple sentence, beginning with line 
24, page 30. In it Irving has combined descriptive details with 
a stately movement that suggests the river's " majestic course." 

e. In the ninth line on page 31, the "crow winging its soli- 
tary flight across the mountain " suggests in one striking detail 
the atmosphere of solitude. Watch for such effects in Irving's 
descriptive passages. Where do you find another instance in 
this story? 

/. How does Irving handle the awakening of Rip? how much 



Notes and Comment 389 

does he disclose and how much does he withhold? Compare 
with the account of Rip's return to the village. 

g. This story has been dramatized, and for years the part of 
Rip was very successfully played by the noted American actor, 
Joseph Jefferson. If you have seen the play, do you recall 
what changes were made by the playwright in the original 
story? Why do you think these changes were made? If you 
have not seen the play, can you suggest certain scenes that 
would be effective on the stage? 

//. The light touch of satirical humor in the conclusion is 
thoroughly characteristic of the author's treatment of the 
supernatural. 

Rural Life in England 

This essay is on a theme peculiarly congenial to the author's 
taste, though the treatment is not so successful as that of similar 
subjects in The Sketch Book (for example. The Country 
Church) ^ for the reason that the observations are somewhat 
lacking in graphic detail and the reflections seem less spon- 
taneous. The essay may, however, be read as a suitable intro- 
duction to the whole group of essays that deal with different 
aspects of English country life. 

51, 26. The Flower and the Leaf of Chaucer. It is now 
believed that the poem was not written by Chaucer, but by 
some imitator in the following century. Geoffrey Chaucer 
(i340?-i40o) is most familiarly known as the author of the 
Canterbury Tales. 

a. There is a good passage of description in the last para- 
graph on page 48. Note the selection of typical, almost conven- 
tional, details of an English landscape, and the easy, har- 
monious cadence of the long sentence. The paragraph will 
repay reading aloud. 

b. Can you find a paragraph which contains a description of 
objects such as particularly appealed to Irving? Why, in gen- 
eral, was the rural life of England more attractive to him than 
that of his own country? 



390 Notes and Comment 



The Broken Heart 

Sentimental pathos of the general sort observable in this 
story was much more in fashion in American literature of 
Irving's day than it is now, and has lost something of its 
appeal. Some of it, in fact, which found expression in The 
Knickerbocker Magazine and the so-called " Annuals," is in- 
supportable to modern literary taste. This extreme of senti- 
ment Irving himself approached in his story. The Wife, one 
of the papers of The Sketch Book not printed in this volume. 
This strain in his writing is no doubt due in part to the effect 
upon him of the death of Matilda Hoffman, narrated in the 
Introduction, page xv. 

58, 3-4. Young E : Robert Emmet (1778-1803). His 

treason consisted in an attempt to effect a revolution in Ireland. 
After his capture he escaped, but returning to take leave of his 
sweetheart, Sarah Curran, he was retaken and hanged. 

60, 33. Moore, the distinguished Irish poet: Thomas 
Moore (1779-1852). His best known poems are Lalla Rookh 
and Irish Melodies. He was a personal friend of Irving. 

a. Find passages that are tinged with sentimental reflection ; 
a passage that seems inspired by the author's personal experi- 
ence of bereavement. 

b. The story is not so purely a story as Rip Van Winkle, 
the narrative element being distinctly subordinated to the au- 
thor's reflections, and serving as an illustration of a general 
observation on human life. In what sentences is this observa- 
tion expressed ? Compare the beginning with that of Rip Van 
Winkle. Where does the real story begin? Compare the end- 
ing with that of Rip Van Winkle. 

The Art of Book-Making 

In this paper again the story element is subordinated to an- 
other purpose, — the humorous satire of plagiarists. The story 
of the dream is told in the author's characteristic vein of 
abundant good spirits. 

62, 13. The British Museum. This museum, situated in 
London, contains, besides a valuable collection of antiquities, 



Notes and Comment 391 

drawings, and prints, a very large library of books and 
manuscripts. 

62, 22. Strange-favored: having an unusual countenance or 
appearance. Compare the expression, "He favors his father"; 
i.e., looks like his father. 

63, 28. Magi: wise men, magicians. 

65, II-I2. The witches' caldron in Macbeth. See Mac- 
beth, Act IV, Scene i. 

67, 23. The Paradise of Daintie Devices: a collection of 
poems which was very popular in Queen Elizabeth's time. 

67, 24. Sir Philip Sidney's hat. Sidney was" an English 
soldier and author who lived during the reign of Eliza- 
beth. The allusion may signify that the plagiarist borrows 
something of the matter and style of the Arcadia, a pastoral 
romance in which the lives and loves of shepherds are depicted. 
See Arcadian hat, page 68, line 7. 

67, 30. Small-clothes: knee-breeches. 

68, 9. Primrose Hill. Both this park and Regent's Park 
are within the limits of London. 

68, 33. Beaumont and Fletcher. Francis Beaumont and 
John Fletcher were two English dramatists of the seventeenth 
century who for several years were closely associated in their 
lives and collaborated in the writing of plays. 

69, I. Ben Jonson: a celebrated English dramatist, partly 
contemporary with Shakespeare. While serving as a soldier 
in the Low Countries, he killed an enemy in single combat. 

69, 16-17. "Chopped bald shot": a short (i.e., "chopped 
off") bald-headed marksman. The phrase is quoted from Fal- 
staif's comment on Wart, a raw recruit in Shakespeare's 
Henry IF {Part II, Act III, Scene ii, line 294) : " O give me al- 
ways a little, lean, old, chopped bald shot." 

69, 20. This learned Theban: wise man. In Shakespeare's 
King Lear (Act III, Scene iv, line 149), Lear says of Edgar, " I'll 
talk a word with this same learned Theban." 

a. Which do you think the more effective means of ridicule, 
the " rambling fancies " that precede the last paragraph on 
page 66 or the dream that follows? 

b. Where do you find a passage that is marked for its nar- 
rative spirit? Read the passage aloud. 



392 



Notes and Comment 



The Country Church 



This Is one of the most delightful of the descriptive essays 
in the volume. The ability to delineate certain aspects of 
English life was one of Irving's best powers, displayed In other 
essays In The Sketch Book and notably in Bracebridge Hall. 

73, 15. Citizen. Note that here the word means tradesman 
or merchant, one connected with the " city," the financial com- 
munity of London. 

73, 20. En prince: French, "in princely style." 

74, 29. Lord Mayor's Day. In London the Lord Mayor is 
elected annually. On November 9, when he takes office, he is 
driven through the streets In a gorgeous carriage. 

a. In what respect Is the opening paragraph a characteristic 
expression of the author's feeling? 

b. It was the author's sympathy for English character and 
customs that caused The Sketch Book, when It was read In 
England, to produce a kindlier feeling toward America. In 
what passages is this sympathy clearly shown? 

c. Do you find any descriptions of character and personal 
appearance that impress you as particularly good? What tell- 
ing details have been chosen? 

The Widow and Her Son 

This sketch Is of the same general character as The Broken 
Heart, with Its theme of death and bereavement, and its per- 
vading spirit of reflective melancholy. It has, however, more 
power to move, for the pathos seems more genuine and more 
restrained; as, for example, the picture of the mother's grief on 
page 81. 

80, 17. There were no mock mourners. It was formerly 
the custom to hire mourners to attend at funerals. 

a. What general impression does the opening paragraph 
give? Why is the paragraph a fitting Introduction to the 
story ? 

'b. Find passages which Illustrate characteristics of Irving's 
feeling and style that have been noted In preceding comments. 



Notes and Comment 393 

c. In comparison with The Broken Heart, does this story so 
distinctly serve the purpose of illustrating some general truth, 
or is it told more for its own sake? 



Sunday in London 

This essay, though brief, should not be lacking in interest. 
It is characterized throughout by Irving's kindly sympathy; and 
the descriptions, if somewhat lacking in graphic quality, catch 
the essential spirit of Sabbath quiet and peace. What are 
some of the details by which this effect is produced? 



The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap 

This essay seems in general to be distinctly imitative of 
Goldsmith, and to have been suggested by that author's 
Diverting History and Droll Adventures of Sir John Falstaff. 
It reveals, however, Irving's sincere love of Shakespeare and 
his delight in what was associated with the great poet's memory. 
Touches of satire are to be found in it, for Irving, not of the 
strictly scholarly temperament himself, seems to have had little 
sympathy with dry commentary. 

In his History of Boar's Head Tavern, in Eastcheap, Gold- 
smith has the following description: 

'* The original building was wood, constructed according to 
the manner of the times, with one story projecting over the 
other, and ornamented with vast Gothic windows, in the mid- 
dle of which was to be seen some pleasant device, achieve- 
ment, or coat of arms stained in the glass. At the door stood 
a vast grapevine, growing upon the supporters, and over the 
doorway a blue boar, a Bacchus, a tun, and a bunch of grapes. 
The apartments within, were accommodated with mighty large 
chimney places, adorned with great impost carvings much in the 
bacchanalian style; and if the reader has ever been to West- 
minster Abbey and has taken up the seats, which turn with 
hinges, in Henry Seventh's Chapel, he has seen specimens of 
the sculpture of the days of Sir John Falstaff. Each side of 
the doorway was a vine branch carved in wood, loaded with 
leaves and clusters; on the top of each was a little Falstaff, 
eight inches high." 



394 Notes and Comment 

91, 18. A great German critic: August Wilhelm von 
Schlegel (1767-1845). He translated Shakespeare's plays into 
German. 

91, 22-23. The comic scenes of Henry IV. The student 
who wishes to enjoy this essay fully should have these scenes 
freshly in mind. They are as follows: Henry IF, Part I, Act 
I, Scene ii ; Act II, Scenes i, ii, and iv; Act III, Scene iii ; Act 
IV, Scene ii ; Act V, Scene iii. Part II, Act II, Scenes i, ii, 
and iv; Act III, Scene ii ; Act IV, Scene iii; Act V, Scenes i, 
iii, iv, and v. 

92, 28. Cock Lane. In 1762, a report was circulated in 
London that a ghost had been seen in a certain house in Cock 
Lane, Smithfield. A party of men. Dr. Johnson among them, 
made investigations. The mystery was found to be an im- 
posture perpetrated by a little girl. 

92, 28-29. Little Britain: a short street off Aldersgate, near 
Bartholomew's Hospital. 

92, 30. Old Jewry: so called because of the number of Jews 
who once dwelt there. 

92, 30-31. The renowned Guildhall and its two stunted 
giants. The Guildhall is the ancient council hall of the City 
of London. The giants are two colossal wooden figures repre- 
senting Gog and Magog, who, according to one tradition, were 
captured by Brute, who chained them to the gate of his palace, 
built on the present site of Guildhall. 

92, 33. London Stone: probably the fragment of the mile- 
stone from which the Roman roads radiated over England. It 
is now set in the walls of St. Swithin's Church, not far, there 
is reason for believing, from the spot where it was originally 
placed. 

92, 34. Jack Cade: the leader of an insurrection against 
Henry VI of England. He declared that he was related to 
the house of Mortimer. When he entered London, he struck 
London Stone with his drawn sword, exclaiming, " Now is 
Mortimer Lord of London ! " 

93» 5- Old Stow: John Stow (1525-1604), author of Survey 
of London, an authoritative book on old London. 

93, 12. " Harpe and sawtrie." Saivtrie is an old spelling 
of psaltery, the name of a stringed instrument used by the 
ancient Hebrews. 

93, 14. Billingsgate: a fish market of London, on the north 



Notes and Comment 395 

bank of the Thames near London Bridge. The " siren " is, of 
course, a fish-wife. 

93, 34. The Monument: erected to commemorate the great 
fire of i666; it stands on the north side of the Thames near 
London Bridge. 

95, 11-12. Like Milton's angels. See Paradise Lost, Book 
II, lines 557-569. 

95, 28. Virgil: Publius Vergilius Maro (B.C. 70-19), a famous 
Roman poet of the Augustan age. His greatest poem is the 
2^neid. 

95, 29. A Marlborough or Turenne. John Churchill, first 
Duke of Marlborough (1650-1722), was victor over the French 
and Bavarians at Blenheim, Ramillies, Oudenarde, and Mal- 
plaquet. — Henri de La Tour d'Auvergne, Vicomte de Turenne, 
was a noted French marshal of the seventeenth century, 

95> 32-33- That doughty champion, William Walworth. 
In 1 381, during the reign of Richard II, Walter the Tyler, or 
Wat Tyler, led a revolt of the English peasants in protest against 
the poll tax. While treating with the king in Smithfield, a 
locality of London near St. Paul's Cathedral, he was killed by 
Lord Mayor Walworth. 

96, 2-3. Sovereigns of Cockney: sovereigns of London. 
" Cockney " is not used here in the usual sense, which is a con- 
temptuous designation of any person, particularly of the lower 
class, born in London, — within the sound of " Bow-bells," on the 
church of St. Mary-le-Bow. 

96, 7-8. Whilom drawer: formerly tapster. 

97, 12. " Mirre garland," etc. Mirre is Middle English 
spelling for Myrrh. 

97, 22-23. Cock Lane ghost. See note on line 28, page 92. 
97, 23-24. The regalia in the Tower. These are the crown 
jewels, estimated to be worth £3,000,000. 

97, 32. Putting lime in his sack. Lime was put Into sack — 
a dry Spanish wine — to make it sparkle. 

98, 13-14. "Marry and amen": an emphatic expression 
for verily. Marry is a corruption of By Mary, i.e., the 
Virgin. 

99, 7. "Bully-rock": a ruffian and sharper is one meaning; 
but Irving, following Shakespeare (whose spelling, however, is 
"bully-rook"), apparently uses the word in the sense of 
" boon companion." 



396 Notes and Comment 

99, 10. Darkling: here " somewhat dark." The usual sense 
(the word is archaic) is "growing dark" or "in the dark." 

100, 34. The learned Scriblerus. The Memoirs of Mar- 
tinus Scriblerus, a literary satire, published in 1741, was written 
by Dr. John Arbuthnot, aided perhaps by Pope and Swift. The 
mock-heroic description of the shield is in Chapter III. 

loi, 1-2. The Knights of the Round Table: according to 
legend, the followers of Arthur, a semi-mythical king of Britain, 
who lived in the sixth century during the incursions of the 
Angles and the Saxons. The Sangreal, or Holy Grail, was 
supposed to be the cup from which Jesus drank at the Last 
Supper. Only he could see it who was pure in heart. See 
Tennyson's Sir Galahad and The Holy Grail. 

loi, 22. "Parcel-gilt goblet": partly gilt, i.e., gilt on the 
embossed parts. Compare " The worthy dame was parcel blind 
and more than parcel deaf" (Scott's Woodstock). For the 
source of the allusion see Henry IV, Part U, Act I, Scene i, line 
94. 

103, 22. The shield of Achilles. For the description of the 
shield of Achilles, the chief warrior of the Greeks at the siege 
of Troy, see Homer's Uiad, Book XVIII. — The Portland vase, 
so called because it was owned by the Duchess of Portland, 
was discovered in the tomb of the Emperor Alexander Severus. 
It is made of transparent dark blue glass, overlaid with opaque 
white glass, in which are cut figures in relief, representing the 
marriage of Peleus and Thetis. The meaning of these figures 
was the subject of the " dissertations and disputes." 

a. Where do you find an impression of Irving's feeling re- 
garding the reality of the imaginative world? 

b. What indications are there in the essay that the writer 
was a man of letters and considerably given to reading? 

c. What passages show particularly his fondness for places 
rich in literary associations? 

d. Where do you find touches of satire on the " dry-as-dust " 
scholar? 

Rural Funerals 

In its observation of country life this essay is akin to Rural 
Life in England, and in its gentle melancholy, to The Broken 
Heart and The Wido^v and Her Son, The theme of death 



Notes and Comment 397 



made beautiful with strewn flowers and tender associations 
would, of course, strongly appeal to the author's imagination. 

104, 1 8. The wild and plaintive ditties of Ophelia. 
See Hamlet, Act V, Scene iv. 

106, II. Sir Thomas Overbury: an English writer in the 
time of Shakespeare, 

io5, 29. Evelyn: John Evelyn (1620-1706), an English au- 
thor, best known for his Diary. Sylva is a treatise on flowers 
and trees. 

107, 23. Umbratile: shadowy, unreal. 

108, 20. Camden: William Camden (i 551-1623), an English 
antiquary and historian. The Britajui'ia is a description of 
Great Britain, written originally in Latin, 

108, 29. Thomas Stanley, Esq.: an English translator and 
poet of the seventeenth century. 

109, 29. Laertes: the brother of Ophelia. See Hamlet, Act 
V, Scene i, 

110, I. Herrick: Robert Herrick (1591-1674), an English 
lyric poet, author of Hesperides and Noble Numbers. 

111, 20. Hireling mourners. See note on line 17, page 80. 
Ill, 21-22. Jeremy Taylor (1613-1667): an English bishop, 

who wrote on theological subjects. His most famous work is 
Holy Lwinff and Holy Dying. 

116, 10. Bright: Richard Bright (1789-1858), a noted Eng- 
lish physician. 

116, 18. Iffland: August Wilhelm Ifiland (1759-1814), a Ger- 
man actor and dramatist of note. 

a. There was something of the poet in Irving; he had 
imagination, a sensitive responsiveness to the beauty of nature 
and human life, and the poet's sense of beautiful and fitting 
language. Parts of this essay are distinctly poetical in tone. 
Read aloud, for example, page iii (beginning with line 29) 
and page 112. Find other passages of similar character, 

b. Find passages that seem distinctly colored by memory of 
personal bereavement, 

c. Do the appended paragraphs seem to you to add to or 
detract from the artistic effect of the essay? 



398 Notes and Comment 



The Inn Kitchen 

This sketch serves as an introduction to The Specter 
Bridegroom, the inn kitchen, with its old-world atmosphere, 
affording suitable surroundings for the telling of a tale based on 
medieval superstition. 

118, 2. Pomme d'Or: French, "Golden Apple." 

118, 4. Table d'hote: French, meaning literally "the host's 
table"; a meal served at regular hours and at a fixed price. 

120, H-12. Ecume de mer: French, "sea foam"; equivalent 
to the German meerschaum. 

Do the character and the appearance of the narrator seem in 
keeping with the nature of the story which he tells? 

The Specter Bridegroom 

This story suggests Rip Van Winkle in the general nature of 
its subject-matter and in its general spirit and treatment. It 
shows the same light humor in the delineation of character and 
in the use of the supernatural. The opportunity for somber 
and gruesome tragedy offered by such a theme may be appre- 
ciated by reading Scott's JVilliam and Helen; Irving turns the 
tale into a pleasant comedy. 

122, 31. Heldenbuch: Book of Heroes: a collection of medi- 
eval romances, written in German. 

123, 4. Minnelieders. Irving has confused this word (the 
correct form of which is Minnelieder, "love songs") with 
Minne-singer, the name applied to the troubadours of Germany 
in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. 

125, 33. The fatted calf had been killed: an allusion to the 
story of the Prodigal Son: Luke xv. II-32. 

126, 2. Rhein-wein and Ferne-wein: "Rhine-wine and old 
wine brought from a distance." 

126, 3. Heidelberg tun: a huge cask in the cellar of the 
castle of Heidelberg, having a capacity of 49,000 gallons. 
126, 5. Saus und Braus: " Roystering and revelry." 
132, 30-31. The fair Leonora. The story of Leonora, or 
Lenore, is told in Biirger's well-known ballad and in Scott's 
imitation of it, entitled William and Helen. 



Notes and Comment 399 

133. 27. Cresset: a frame or basket of metal constructed to 
hold combustible material and to serve as a torch. 

137, I. Trencher: a wooden plate, originally a square piece 
of coarse bread on which cooked meats were placed. 

a. Note how the first paragraph of brief description gives a 
hint of the prevailing atmosphere of the story. 

b. The narrative is slightly more complex than that of any 
preceding story in the book: the author has to deal with two 
groups of characters in different places, one consisting of the 
Baron and his family; the other of Count Von Altenburg and 
his friend. Note at what point that part of the story which in- 
volves one group is dropped, and that which involves the other 
is taken up. Is the point of transition well chosen with a view 
of keeping the reader's interest sustained? 

c. How does the author contrive to create and sustain the 
doubt whether the mysterious knight is a specter or really 
young Starkenfaust? Does the fact that the stranger is unable 
to explain his real identity seem probable? What motive 
v.'ould make him try to create the impression that he is a 
specter? At what point does the author directly disclose to the 
reader the solution of the mystery? Why is this point of dis- 
closure effectively chosen? 

d. Which character in the story seems to you most real and 
human? Does any character seem as natural and real as 
Rip? Are any characters delineated in a serious spirit? 

e. In what passages is the effect of the supernatural light- 
ened by a humorous touch ? 

Westminster Abbey 

This essay shows in a marked degree Irving's persistent 
tendency to muse over the past. His imagination was pecu- 
liarly at home in some ancient building, " among the shades 
of former ages," the " mingled picture of glory and decay." 
In such surroundings lay the inspiration of The Alhambra. 
Even the beauty and impressiveness of the Abbey itself, apart 
from the memorials of the dead, are, to Irving's mind, de- 
pendent in large measure upon the effect of age. "The sharp 
touches of the chisel are gone from the rich tracery of the 
arches ; the roses which adorn the key-stones have lost their 



400 Notes and Comment 

leafy beauty; everything bears marks of the gradual dilapida- 
tions of time, which yet has something touching and pleas- 
ing in its very decay." 

If the student wishes to read other essays suggested by 
Irving's Westminster Abbey, he can find them in The Spectator, 
No. 26 and in Letter XIII of Goldsmith's A Citizen of the 
World. He should read also Irving's Notes Concerning West- 
minster Abbey, in the Appendix at the end of this volume. 

140, II. Westminster School. This famous school was es- 
tablished in 1540 by Henry VIII, and after it had been put 
out of existence in the reign of Queen Mary, was re-established 
by Elizabeth. Many of its old customs survive to-day. The 
student may read a detailed description of the school in the 
series. Handbooks to Great Public Schools. 

141, 32-34. Vitalis. Abbas., etc.: Latin, signifying: " Vitalis, 
Abbot, died 1082," etc. 

144, 8. Chapels: not separate buildings, but recesses along the 
walls of the main edifice. 

144, 27. Morion: an open helmet. 

145, 28. The tomb of Mrs. Nightingale. A picture of this 
monument is printed in Ackermann's History of St. Peter's, West- 
minster, opposite page 193. 

145, 29. Roubiliac: Louis Frangois Roubiliac, or Roubillac 
(1695-1762), a French sculptor. His monument to the Duke 
John of Argyll in Westminster Abbey has been called the best 
work of the sort in England. 

147, 8. Knights of the Bath. An order of knighthood with 
this name is said to have been founded in 1399, at the corona- 
tion of Henry IV; the candidates were immersed in a bath 
as a token of purification. The present order was established 
by George I in 1725 as a military organization. 

148, 15-17. The haughty Elizabeth — the lovely and un- 
fortunate Mary. Mary Stuart, or Mary Queen of Scots, was 
beheaded February 8, 1587, on the charge of plotting against the 
life of Elizabeth. The implication of Irving's phrasing is un- 
just to Elizabeth; if her act of signing Mary's death warrant 
lacked full justification, it was strongly provoked by the latter's 
secret plottings. 

150, 7-8. Edward the Confessor: so called because of his 
reputed sanctity; he was King of the West Saxons from 1043 
to 1066. 



Notes and Comment 401 

150, 16-17. The great chair of coronation. There are two 
coronation chairs in the chapel. The older contains the stone of 
Scone, on which the Scotch kings were crowned. This, a squared 
block of reddish-gray sandstone, was carried out of Scotland 
by Edward I, in token of his conquest of the country. In this 
chair all the English sovereigns since Edward I have been 
crowned. The other chair was made especially for the corona- 
tion of Mary, Queen of William III. 

152, II. Sir Thomas Browne (1605-1682): a celebrated 
English author and physician. The passage is quoted from the 
Urn Burial, his most characteristic work. 

152, 22. Cambyses: Cambyses III, a king of Persia in the 
sixth century B.C., who, in a war against Psammetichus III, 
devastated Egypt. 

152, 23. Mizraim: the Hebrew word iov Egypt. 

a. How does the character of the day accord with the 
author's mood ? 

b. Notice how this mood responds to everything that he 
sees and hears. What are some of the sights and sounds that 
stimulate it? 

c. What passages do you find in which description is blended 
with sentiment and reverie? 

d. What passages seem to you remarkable for the stately 
harmony of the language? 

e. The combined effect of the descriptions, the reflections, 
and the harmonious language is to make the reader feel the 
spirit and atmosphere of the place. For this reason this essay 
should by all means be read aloud. 

Christmas 

Irving's sympathy with English life has already been referred 
to in the comment on The Country Church. In addition to this, 
his lively social and domestic instinct, and his love of old times, 
would insure his experiencing a particular pleasure in the 
Christmas observances which he describes. 

155, 18. Advent: the season which includes the four Sundays 
immediately preceding Christmas. 

157, 17. Humors: whims, caprices. 

158, 5. Sherris sack: "Xeres sack," a dry sherry. 



402 Notes and Comment 

159, 4. Waits: bands of musicians who at Christmas time 
go from house to house singing carols. 

159, 24. Strike: afflict or blast. 

159, 25. Takes: charms, bewitches. The passage is quoted 
from Hamlet, Act I, Scene i, line 158 ff. 

a. In what passage in particular is a fine Christmas spirit 
shown ? 

b. Do you find any passage in which Irving's feelings seem 
colored by personal experience? 



The Stage Coach 

The spirit of good oheer and pleasant anticipation permeates 
this essay. The description of the boys returning for a holiday, 
of the coachman with his " jolly dimensions " and busy, im- 
portant air, and of the inn kitchen, all contribute to the effect. 

161 (Motto). Omne bene, etc. The following is a free trans- 
lation: 

Oh, what fun ! 

Our tasks all done, 
The time is ours for playing. 

This happy tide, 

Lay books aside. 
And that without delaying. 

162, 14. Bucephalus: the favorite horse of Alexander the 
Great, which no one but his master could ride. 

163, 2. Craft or mystery. Mystery (derived from Latin 
ministerium) is a synonym for craft or trade. 

163, 15. Small clothes. See note on line 30, page 67. 

164, 3. Battening: feeding gluttonously or growing fat. 

164, 30. Juntos. See note on line 12, page 29. 

165, 2. Cyclops (or Cyclopes) : according to classical 
mythology, a race of giants, each possessing a single eye. 
They assisted Vulcan, the smith of the gods, at his forge 
under Mt. ^tna; 

165, 21-22. Square it among pies and broth. This has 
been explained as meaning " range themselves with " or " are 



Notes and Comment 403 

used in right proportions in pies and broth," but a possible 
meaning is " strut or swagger among pies and broth." Com- 
pare Greene, Quip for an Upstart Courtier: "As if some 
curious Florentine had trickt them up to square it up and down 
the streets before his mistress." (Quoted in the Century Dic- 
tionary.) 

165, 26-27. Great is the contention of holly and ivy. The 
allusion is obscure. It has been explained as referring to some 
possible custom of fashioning effigies of holly and ivy respectively 
in order to determine whether husband or wife was the better 
man. 

165, 28. Dice and cards benefit the butler. At Christmas 
time it was the custom for the butler to receive the contents of 
a box into which gamesters put part of their winnings. 

167, 9. Smokejack: a contrivance for turning a roasting spit; 
it was kept in motion by the gases rising in the chimney. 

a. By means of what details, in the description of the school- 
boys, does Irving create the impression of eager anticipation 
and unrestrained good spirits? 

b. Does the coachman seem to be described from life? What 
details in the description give him reality? 

c. Is the description of the kitchen in keeping throughout 
with the impression produced by the " rousing kitchen fire 
beaming through a window " ? 

Christmas Eve 

Besides sustaining the effect of good cheer, Irving shows, 
in this and the following Christmas sketches, how keen a pleas- 
ure he took in old English customs; they are all filled with the 
buoyant spirit of " Merry England." The character of Master 
Simon and the Squire are skilfully delineated, distinctly in the 
Spectator manner. 

169, 16. Took honest Peacham for his text-book instead 
of Chesterfield. Henry Peacham (1576 ?-i 643 ?), in The 
Complete Gentleman, advocated life in the country, particu- 
larly participation in sports and athletics. Lord Chesterfield 
(1694-1773), on the other hand, in his Letters to His Son, gives 
advice concerning the life of fashion in the city. 

170, 19. " The Squire." In England the title was for a long 



404 Notes and Comment 

time applied to a proprietor of hereditary estates who is below 
the nobility in rank; it is now more general. 

172, 26-37. The French taste of Charles the Second's 
time. After the dissolution of the Protectorate of Oliver Crom- 
well and his son Richard, Charles II, son of Charles I (who 
had been beheaded in 1649), came to the throne of England 
with the Restoration of 1660. He had spent much time at the 
French court, where he acquired French ideas and tastes. 

174, 6. Oxonian: a student or graduate of Oxford University. 

176, 28-29. Finding him to be perfectly orthodox: an allu- 
sion to the opposition to Christmas indulgences and festivities 
instituted by the Puritans. Compare " the sectarian controversies 
of the Revolution " and " the fiery persecutions of poor mince 
pie," on page 192, lines 32-33, and page 193, lines 9-10, 

178, 17. Factotum: one who does every sort of odd job; a 
" do-all," or " Jack-of-all-trades." 

178, i8. By jumping with his humor: by being in accord 
with his whims. 

179, 19. Rigadoon: a lively dance for two. 
181, 33. Tester: a flat canopy over a bed. 

a. Does Frank Bracebridge's description of his father on pages. 
169 and 170 prepare the reader for the peculiar character of the 
festivities that are described later? 

b. Do you find a description which, like the description 
of the English landscape on page 48, is almost conventionalized 
in its selection of typical details? 

c. There are touches in the description of Master Simon that 
remind one of Will Wimble in The Spectator. A comparison 
of the two will prove worth while. 

Christmas Day 

185, i8. Wassaile bowles. See Irving's note at the foot of 
page 206. 

185, 21. Soiles: enriches, fertilizes. 

188, 1-2. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's Book, etc. Of the 
authors mentioned here, Izaak Walton (1593-1683), whose chief 
work is The Complete Angler, is the most important. 

188, 20. Old Tusser: Thomas Tusser (1527-1580), an Eng- 
lish poet of minor rank; author of A Hundred Good Points of 



Notes and Comment 405 

Good Husbandry and Five Hundred Points of Good Husbandry 
United to as Many of Good JViferie. 

188, 30. Gervase Markham (i568?-i637?) : an English poet 
and dramatist. 

189, 34. Caxton and Wynkyn de Worde. William Caxton 
(1422-1491) was the first English printer; Wynkyn de Worde 
was first his assistant and later his successor. 

190, 9. Adust: fiery. 

190, 21. By the Druids in their mystic ceremonies. The 
Druids, the priests of the ancient Celts of Gaul, Britain, and 
Ireland, held the oak and the mistletoe sacred, as the symbol 
of God and man's dependence upon Him. 

190, 24. The Fathers of the Church: the early teachers and 
defenders of Christianity. See " Theophilus of Cesarea," etc., 
lines 24 and 25, page 192. 

193, 17. Old Prynne: William Prynne, who, in the time of 
Charles I, suffered for his zealous advocacy of Puritanical 
ideas. 

193, 18. Roundheads: a name contemptuously applied by the 
Cavaliers, or Royalists, to the Puritans, because they wore their 
hair short. 

195, 21. May they with old Duke Humphry dine. To 
dine with Duke Humphry meant not to have any dinner at all; 
i.e., to stay behind in " Duke Humphry's Walk," while others 
went home to dine. The name " Duke Humphry's Walk " was 
given to one of the aisles in the old church of St. Paul's (where 
it was the custom for certain people to go for the purpose of 
taking exercise or of getting the news) because one of the monu- 
ments was erroneously supposed to be that of Humphry, Duke 
of Gloucester. 

195, 22. Squire Ketch: Jack Ketch (died 1686), an execu- 
tioner notorious for his cruelty. 

195, 28. Brawn: the flesh of the boar, boiled and pickled. 

197, 19. Christmas box: a box containing a small sum of 
money to be given to servants on the day after Christmas. 

198, 33. Pandean pipes: Pan's pipes, a musical instrument 
of ancient origin supposed to have been invented by the god 
Pan. It was formed of short reeds of graduated lengths. 

a. In the description on page 184 do you observe any quality 
that has already been commented on in other passages? 



4o6 Notes and Comment 

b. Compare the behavior of Mr. Simon during the church 
service (page 191) with that of Sir Roger de Coverley in 
The Spectator, No. 112. 

c. Do you observe any touches of caricature in the descrip- 
tion of the choir? 

d. Would the parson have done well to follow the example 
of Sir Roger's chaplain {Spectator, No. 106) in reading a ser- 
mon written by some one else? 

e. What impression have you so far received of the Squire? 
Does one trait seem to be emphasized above all others? 

The Christmas Dinner 

This sketch is to be classed among Irving's best. The student 
would do well to read it aloud, without analysis, but keeping 
in mind what has been said concerning Irving's sympathy with 
English customs and old times, his effective description of 
scenes, and his humorous delineation of character. 

200, 12. Train-band: a militia organization; originally, one 
formed in London in the time of Charles I and Charles II. 

201, 21. Belshazzar's parade. For the story of Belshazzar's 
feast see Daniel 'v. 

202, 4. Holbein's portraits or Albert Diirer's prints. 
Hans Holbein (1497-1543) and Albert (or Albrecht) Durer 
(1471-1528) were both famous German printers and engravers. 

202, 17. A Gothic age: a rude, barbaric age. 

203, 5. Caput apri defero, etc. The first line of the stanza 
is translated in the third; the second means "Rendering 
praises unto the Lord " ; the last, " Who are present at the 
banquet." 

207, 13. Chanson: French, "a song." 

208, 6. Slow hound: a sleuth hound. 

208, i6. Curricle: a two-wheeled two-horse carriage. 

209, II. Anatomy: an extremely meager person. 

209, 23. The Isis: a tributary of the Thames near Oxford; 
the name is sometimes applied to the upper part of the Thames 
itself. 

209, 24. "Alphabet of faces": a long or complete series 
of faces. " Small beer, that would make a man run through 
an alphabet of faces." — Murray's Neiv English Dictionary. 

210, 12-13. A rather broad story out of Joe Miller. Joe 



Notes and Comment 407 

Miller (1684-1738) was an English comedian. Joe Miller's 
Jest Book or the Jfit's Fade Mecum was really written by John 
Mottley. 

211, 2-3. The mock fairies about FalstafF. See The Merry 
Wives of JFindsor, Act V, Scenes iv and v. 

213, 27. The court of Fairy: the court of fairyland. 

214, 12. The Covenanters. In 1638, the Scotch Presby- 
terians entered into " a solemn league and covenant " to defend 
and reform religion against the doctrines and forms of worship 
which Charles I attempted to force upon them. 

214, 24. Maid Marian: in the old ballads, Robin Hood's 
sweetheart, who, when he was outlawed, followed him to the 
greenwood in the guise of a page, and was married to him 
there. 

Where do you find an expression of Irving's ideal regarding 
the purpose of his writing? 

London Antiques 

This essay is lacking in the fullness of detail that contributes 
so effectively to the interest of the author's best work, but in it, 
his manner, if not at its best, is clearly discernible. 

218 (Motto). Guido Vaux: Guy Fawkes, who in 1605 was 
implicated in the Gunpowder Plot, the purpose of which was 
to blow up the house of Parliament on November 5, while the 
king, James I, and the members were in session. The plot was 
instituted by a number of Roman Catholics who were incensed 
at James's lack of toleration. 

218 (Motto). Robin Goodfellow: a mischievous elf, called 
also Puck. 

219, 17. The chapel of the Knights Templars. The 
Knights Templars were a military order, organized in Jeru- 
salem in what was known as the Temple of Solomon. Their 
" new temple " was built in London in the twelfth century, and 
has since been restored. The district once comprised in the 
lands belonging to the Templars is still called "The Temple"; 
part of it is occupied by the Inns of Court. 

221, 16. Genii: guardian spirits. 

223, 15. The Charter House. The history of this institu- 
tion is traceable to the second half of the fourteenth century, 



4oB Notes and Comment 

when a monastery of the Carthusians was founded on its site. 
Chartreuse, of which "Charterhouse" is a corrupt form, is 
the name also of the home of the brotherhood in France, La 
Grande Chartreuse. 

223, 30. Hospital: here, a charitable institution affording a 
home for aged pensioners. In connection with this paragraph 
and the one that precedes, the student would profit by read- 
ing the story of Colonel Newcome's life in the Charterhouse, 
told in Thackeray's The Neiucomes. 

What does the author gain for interest by reserving his ex- 
planation until the postscript? 

Little Britain 

Irving lived in Little Britain during August, 1817, in Bartholo- 
mew's Close. In the fictitious person who makes the observa- 
tions recorded in the sketch, the features of the author himself 
may be easily discerned. 

225 (Title). Little Britain. The name has its origin in the 
fact that in the time of Edward II the mansion of John, Duke of 
Bretagne, was in this district. 

225. Grave auntients (within the hearing of Bow bell): 
venerable Londoners, See note on line 2, page 96. 

227, 21. John BuUism: the typical English character or 
point of view. See Irving's essay on John Bull. 

227, 26. Shrove Tuesday: the day before Ash Wednes- 
day; on this day confession is made in preparation for 
Lent. 

227, 27. Michaelmas: St. Michael's Day, the 29th of Sep- 
tember, a feast day in the Anglican church, 

227, 28. "Burn the pope" on the fifth of November: to 
commemorate the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot. See first 
note on page 218. 

228, 2. St. Paul's. This famous cathedral, designed by Sir 
Christopher Wren, was begun in 1675, to replace the older 
edifice, which was destroyed in the fire of 1666. The dome is 
one hundred and twelve feet in diameter. 

228, 3-4. The figures that strike the hours at St. Dun- 
Stan's clock. These figures, on the clock of the old church 
(which preceded the structure erected on the same site in 1831), 



Notes and Comment 409 

were armed with clubs, with which they struck the hours and 
the quarters. 

228, 4. The Monument. See note on line 34, page 93. 
^ 228, 4-5. The lions in the tower. Wild beasts — originally 
presents to the king — were kept in the Tower of London from 
the time of Henry III until 1834, when the menagerie was 
changed into a zoological garden. 

228, 5. The wooden giants in Guildhall. See note on line 
30, page 92. 

229, 3-4. Robert Nixon and Mother Shipton. The first 
of these " prophets " lived in the early part of the seventeenth 
century; the second, who is probably mythical, was supposed 
to have lived during the reign of Henry VIH. 

229, 26. The good old king, etc. George HI died in 1820, 
the year in which this essay (contained in No. VII of The 
Sketch Book) was published. He was succeeded by his son, 
George IV. In the same year the latter's brother, the Duke of 
Kent, died, and the Duke of Berry, nephew of Louis XVIII, 
was murdered. The " Manchester Massacre " occurred on 
August 16, 1819; the " Cato Street Conspiracy" — a plot to 
assassinate the new king's ministers — on February 23, 1820. In 
this year also, Queen Caroline, George IV's wife, whom the 
king had resolved to divorce, returned to England. 

230, 9-10. The history of Whittington and his Cat. Ac- 
cording to a legendary ballad, young Dick Whittington, while 
resting on his journey away from London, heard the bells of St. 
Mary-le-Bow, which seemed to repeat, " Turn again, Whitting- 
ton, thrice Mayor of London." The prophecy was fulfilled. 

232, II. Broke the head: i.e., merely the skin on the head. 

233, 12. Lord Mayor's Day. See note on line 29, page 74. 
235, I. Saturnalia. In ancient Roman times, the festival of 

Saturn was celebrated with mirth and feasting. 

235, 17. Temple Bar: a gateway near the Temple that 
formerly divided Fleet Street from the Strand, It was pulled 
down in 1877. The original gateway marked the boundary be- 
tween London and the City of Westminster. 

237, 31. Articled: bound by articles of agreement, as in the 
case of an apprentice bound out to serve a master. 

237, 34. Kean: Edmund Kean (1787-1833), an English actor 
of note. 

239, 23. "Quality binding": literally, a worsted tape for 



410 Notes and Comment 

binding carpets. {Century Dictionary.) Here it seems to have 
the sense of newly acquired social finish. 

a. The sentence beginning with line 13 on page 227 is dis--' 
tinctly reminiscent of The Spectator, and those beginning 
with line 25 in the next paragraph, of a passage in Gold- 
smith's Vicar of Wakefield. 

b. Does the description of the Lambs on pages 237-242 suggest 
a similar description in a preceding sketch? 

c. The account of the intrusion of fashion into the world of 
Little Britain is particularly enjoyable. 

Stratford-on-Avon 

This essay is to be associated with The Boar's Head Tavern, 
Eastcheap, and the comments already made on the earlier essay 
apply in general here. This, too, seems to be somewhat remi- 
niscent of one of Goldsmith's papers — A Re'verie in Boar's Head 
Tavern, Eastcheap. 

244, 10. The Jubilee, and David Garrick. The Jubilee 
lasted three days, September 6-8, 1769. It was celebrated under 
the direction of David Garrick, the great actor, — who did 
much to arouse interest in Shakespeare in the eighteenth cen- 
tury, — Dr. Arne, and James Boswell, the biographer of Dr. 
Johnson. 

244, 19. The house where Shakespeare was born. In 
his Life of William Shakespeare, Sidney Lee says: "Some 
doubt is justifiable as to the ordinarily accepted scene of his 
[Shakespeare's] birth. Of two adjoining houses forming a 
detached building on the north side of Henley Street, that to 
the east was purchased by John Shakespeare [the poet's father] 
in 1556, but there is no evidence that he owned or occupied the 
house to the west before 1575. [Shakespeare was born in 
1564.] Yet this western house has been known since 1759 
as the poet's birthplace, and a room on the first floor is claimed 
as that in which he was born." Sidney Lee: A Life of William 
Shakespeare, page, 8. 

244, 21. His father's craft of wool-combing. Various re- 
lated occupations have been ascribed to Shakespeare's father. 
He seems to have been glover, butcher, dealer in corn, wool, 
malt, skins, and leather. 



Notes and Comment 411 

244, 21-22. It is a small, mean-looking edifice. The 
building is no longer mean-looking. In 1847 it was restored, 
and converted into a museum and library. " Much of the 
Elizabethan timber and stone work remains, but a cellar under 
the ' birthplace ' is the only portion which remains as it was 
at the date of the poet's birth." Sidney Lee: A Life of IVilliam 
Shakespeare, page 9. 

245, 4-5. A rival smoker of Sir Waltef Raleigh. Raleigh, 
who introduced tobacco into England, was marked for his 
fondness for smoking at a time when few smoked. One 
anecdote relates that a servant, seeing smoke issuing from 
his master's mouth, thought he was on fire, and ran away 
terrified. 

245, 7. Friar Laurence, etc. See Romeo and Juliet, Act V, 
Scene iii. 

245, 29. The Santa Casa of Loretto. The " Holy House " 
in Nazareth, in which, according to the belief of some, the 
Virgin Mary lived, was said to have been miraculously trans- 
ported to Loretto. 

248, 1-2. The long interval, etc. This sentence overstates 
the case. "After the Restoration [1660] . . . Shakespeare's 
work was subjected to some unfavorable criticism as a product 
of nature to the exclusion of art, but the eclipse proved more 
partial than is commonly admitted. . . . From the accession 
of Queen Anne to the present day the tide of Shakespeare's 
reputation, both on the stage and among critics, has flowed 
onward almost uninterruptedly." Lee: A Life of IVilliam 
Shakespeare, pages 345 and 348. 

249, 22. Fifty-three years. Fifty-two is correct: Shake- 
peare lived from 1564 to 1616. 

250, 12. John Combe of usurious memory: a rich citizen 
of Stratford who left Shakespeare a bequest of ^5. It is doubt- 
ful if the poet wrote the epitaph which tradition ascribes to him: 

" Ten-in-the-hundred the Devil allows. 
But Combe will have twelve he sweares and he vowes; 
If any man ask, who lies in this tomb? 
Oh! ho! quoth the Devil, 'tis my John-a-Combe." 
250, 32-33. His youthful offense of deer-stealing. The 
tradition that Shakespeare stole deer from Sir Thomas Lucey's 
park has been doubted, but there is some evidence for believing 
it. The ballad, however, is probably spurious. 



412 Notes and Comment 

251, 20. Justice Shallow. See The Merry Wives of Wind- 
sor, Act I, Scene i. 

256, 29-30. He derived his noble forest meditations of 
Jaques. See As You Like It, Act II, Scene vii. 

259, 25-26. A Star Chamber matter. The Star Chamber 
was a court which exercised arbitrary authority in cases of 
fraud, libel, conspiracy, riot, etc. It is ridiculous, of course, to 
regard poaching as possibly coming within its jurisdiction. 

259* 29. Coram. The word means " in the presence of." 
Slender incorrectly uses it for quorum. 

259, 30. Custalorum: a corruption of custos rotulorum, 
"keeper of the rolls" (or parchment records). 

259, 31. Ratalorum: apparently for rotulorum, with humo- 
rous intent. 

259, 32. Armigero: for armiger, "armor bearer," i.e., 
esquire. 

260, 7-8. Take your vizaments in that: give that your 
due consideration. 

260, 12. Sir Peter Lely: court painter to Charles II. 

261, 3-4. "A cane-colored beard." The spelling of "cane" 
is confused. In old tapestries Cain was represented with a 
yellow beard. 

263, 17. "By cock and pye": "a minced and mixed oath 
consisting of an adjuration of the Deity (under a corrupt name 
[Cock]) and the old Roman Catholic service book" [pye]. — 
Century Dictionary. Irving, however, explains the ejaculation 
differently in his note on page 205. 

264, 16. Fair Rosalind: the heroine of As You Like It. 

265, I. Westminster Abbey. There is a monument to Shake- 
speare in the Poets' Corner in the Abbey. 

a. In what way does Irving convey his lack of belief in the 
genuineness of the relics? (Page 245.) Find another passage 
of like character. 

b. Where in the character-descriptions do you find a touch 
of the amusing weakness of human nature? 

c. Find passages which show Irving's susceptibility to fanci- 
ful musing in the presence of memorials of the past. 

d. What passages seem to you to indicate most clearly his 
love of Shakespeare? 

e. Note the effective conclusion. 



Notes and Comment 413 



Traits of Indian Character 

The notable quality of this and the following essay is the 
author's sympathy and fairness toward a race which he believes 
to have been unjustly treated. The style is markedly simple 
and direct: both the characteristic humor and, for the most 
part, the characteristic adornment are absent. 

277, 29. Curule chairs. The curule chair was the official 
seat of a Roman magistrate of high rank. 

Philip of Pokanoket 

297, 4. Starved. Starve is used here in the old sense of die. 
Compare the German sterben. 

a. How do you account for the simplicity of style in these 
two essays? 

b. In contrast to the prevailing simple style, the eloquence 
of one passage is noticeable. Find the passage, and read it 
aloud. 

c. Observe that in Philip of Pokanoket the story of Indian 
courage and warfare is subordinated to the purpose of showing 
the wrongs done to the Indians, and is lacking in lively narra- 
tive interest. Do you think Irving could have told an Indian 
story in exciting fashion? If so, what purpose might he 
have had in not emphasizing the exciting details? How might 
James Fennimore Cooper have told the same story? 

John Bull 

This sketch blends a description of the typical English char- 
acter — a little in the spirit of caricature — with veiled comment 
on the national history and affairs of Great Britain. The 
kindly sympathy in the spirit of the essay would tend to pre- 
vent an English reader from taking offense. 

300 (Motto). Buttery hatch: a half-door opening into the 
pantry. 

301, 9. Beau ideal: French, "perfect model." 

301, 1 6. Beyond the sound of Bow-bells. See note on line 
2, page 96. 



414 Notes and Comment 

304, 6. "Gentlemen of the fancy": sporting men, especially 
prize-fighters. 

305, 23. An entire wing, etc.: in reference to the Established 
Church. 

305, 34. Many dissenting chapels. The churches of the Dis- 
senters, i.e., those who refuse to adhere to the Established 
Church, are called chapels. 

306, 4. A pious and portly family chaplain: the clergy of 
the Established Church. 

306, 25. John has frequently been advised to have the old 
edifice thoroughly overhauled, etc. When this paper was 
being written the question of the reorganization of Parliament 
(which ultimately resulted in the Reform Bill of 1832) was 
being agitated. The reform consisted in securing a more even 
representation in the House of Commons. 

307, 2-3. The growth of centuries. The English constitu- 
tion is not a single document, but comprises certain great 
documents, like Mag7ia Cliarta and the Bill of Rights, certain 
important laws, legal decisions, and even old traditions. 

307, 8. Any part of the building as superfluous: for ex- 
ample, the sovereign, who in himself has very little executive 
power, or the House of Lords, whose function is slight in 
comparison with that of the House of Commons. 

310, 33. These family dissensions: for example, the civil 
disturbances referred to in the note on line 26, page 229. 

a. What parts of the essay seem to you to deal with the char- 
acter of the typical Englishman? What parts seem to deal 
rather with national history and affairs? 

b. In what other essays does Irving show his sympathy for 
England and English customs? 



The Pride of the Village 

In the general character of its pathos, this story suggests 
The Broken Heart and The Widoiv and Her Son; it resembles 
the latter more closely in respect to the prominence given to the 
story itself. 

316, 16-17. Rachel, "mourning over her children," etc. 
Sec Mattheiv ii. 18. 



Notes and Comment 415 

a. Does the sentiment in this story seem to you to be over- 
wrought or held in restraint? 

b. Find passages which illustrate qualities pointed out in the 
other similar stories. 

c. Do you notice any incident which offers an opportunity 
for "highly seasoned narrative," but in which Irving has re- 
frained ifrom sensational treatment? Did he show good taste in 
thus treating it? Why? 

d. Compare the ending with that of one of the similar 
stories. Which ending seems most effective? 



The Angler 

Irving's point of view in this essay is less that of a genuine 
sportsman than that of a literary artist to whom sport presents 
certain picturesque aspects. 

325, 15. Don Quixote. Don Quixote de la Manclia, the 
hero of Cervantes' satirical romance, being inspired by read- 
ing tales of chivalry to attempt knightly deeds, sets forth with 
his squire, Sancho Panza, in search of heroic adventure. Every- 
body should read this delightful book. 

335, 23-24. St. Peter's master: an allusion to the fact that 
the apostle Peter was a fisherman. 

Find a descriptive passage which indicates that the author 
was describing what he had actually seen. What details show 
close observation? What single words — adjectives or verbs — 
are well chosen to render the desired effect of form, color, or 
motion in the picture? 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 

This is one of the most popular and most famous of Irving's 
stories. The descriptions of scene and character are given with 
a master hand, and the humor, — which is not free from carica- 
ture, — is irrepressibly spontaneous and buoyant. 

336 (Title). Diedrich Knickerbocker: the fictitious author 
of Irving's History of New York. 

336, 4. Tappan Zee: a wide part of the Hudson River near 
Tarrytown. 



41 6 Notes and Comment 

336, 5-6. The protection of St. Nicholas. St. Nicholas, a 
bishop of Myra in Asia, was regarded as the patron saint of 
sailors, as well as of thieves, virgins, and children. 

337, 9, If ever I should wish for a retreat, etc. Irving came 
to possess such a retreat. " Sunnyside," which he purchased in 
1835, was situated near Sleepy Hollow. 

337. 34- The nightmare, with her whole nine fold. 
Irving has in mind the phrase in King Lear, " the night-mare 
and her nine-fold." Act III, Scene iv, line 126. 

340, 14-15. Eel-pot: a trap for catching eels. 

342, 6-7. The lion bold, etc.: an allusion to the verse in the 
Neiv England Primer, accompanying the letter "L": 

" The lion bold 
The lamb doth hold." 

343, 18. Cotton Mather (1663-1728): a New England Con- 
gregational minister, scholar, and author. 

351, 3. Don Cossacks: Cossacks from the region of the 
River Don in Russia. The Cossacks are very skilful horse- 
men. 

351, 29. Supple-jack: a climbing vine. 

352, 1-2. That stormy lover, Achilles. In the first book of 
Homer's Iliad, Achilles, one of the chieftains who led the 
Greeks at the siege of Troy, disappointed and enraged be- 
cause Agamemnon, his chief, took away a beautiful girl whom 
he had received as a prize, refused for a time to fight. The 
theme of the Iliad is the wrath of Achilles. 

354, 28. Mynheer. Compare the German Mein Herr. 

357, 5. Monteiro: obsolete spelling of tnontero, a huntsman's 
cap. 

359. 13- " Oly koek": "oil cake," somewhat like a dough- 
nut or cruller. 

361, 25. The Battle of White Plains: fought on Octo- 
ber 28, 1776, between the Americans under Washington 
and the British under Lord Howe. The Americans were 
defeated. 

363, 26. Until they reached the bridge. According to popu- 
lar superstition, specters and witches will not cross running 
water. Compare Burns's Tarn O' Shanter. 

364, 2. And should have won it: was certain to have won 
it; an older use. 



Notes and Comment 417 

a. What other stories in The Sketch Book does this resemble 
in general treatment? Find passages in which this resemblance 
appears. Which of the stories amuses you most? 

b. What is the prevailing tone of the opening paragraph? 
Why is this a good way to begin the story? 

c. In what way is the reader prepared for the supernatural 
element in the story? 

d. Note the caricature in the description of Ichabod Crane 
(page 339). Find a similar passage. 

e. The first sentence in the last paragraph on page 340 is 
thoroughly characteristic of Irving's humor. 

/. How is Ichabod's propensity to believe in supernatural 
creatures first introduced? 

g. Note in the description on page 343, and in other descrip- 
tive passages in the story, how the details are selected for 
the desired effect and how skilfully chosen words make the effect 
more vivid. Which description do you think is the best? Why? 

h. Charles Dudley Warner thought that Irving was remorse- 
less toward Ichabod, that he should have " endowed him with 
some touch of pathos." Do you think the story would have 
been improved if this had been done? Can you suggest a way 
in which it might have been done? 

i. In the conclusion, how is the solution of the mystery 
suggested rather than directly given? In what respect is the 
last paragraph characteristic of Irving's manner? Illustrate 
from another story. 



]£nolt6b IReabtnas tot Schools 

Wilbur L. Cross, Yale University, General Editor 

Addison: Sir Roger de Coverley Papers. 

Edited by Nathaniel E. Griffin, Princeton University. 

Arnold: Sohrab and Rustum, and Other Poems. 
Edited by Walter S. Hinchman, Groton School. 

Browning: Selections. 

Edited by Charles W. Hodell, Goucher College, Baltimore 
Bun)^an: Pilgrim's Progress, Part I. 

Edited by John H. Gardiner, Harvard University. 
Burke: On Conciliation. 

Edited by Daniel V. Thompson, Lawrenceville School. 
Byron: Prisoner of Chillon and Other Poems. 

Edited by Hardin Craig, University of Minnesota. 

Defoe: Robinson Crusoe. 

Edited by Wilbur L. Cross, Yale University. 
Dickens : Tale of Two Cities. 

Edited by E. H. Kemper McComb, Manual Training High 

School, Indianapolis, Ind. 

Eliot: Silas Marner. 

Edited by Ellen E. Garrigues, De Witt Clinton High 
School, New York City. 

Franklin : Autobiography. 

Edited by Frank W. Pine, Hill School, Pottstown, Pa. 
Gray: Elegy and Other Poems, with Goldsmith: The 

Deserted Village and Other Poems. Edited by Morric 

W. Croll, Princeton University. 

Huxley: Selections. 

Edited by Charles Alphonso Smith, University of Virginia. 

Irving: Sketch Book. 

Edited by Arthur W. Leonard, Phillips Academy, Andover, 
Mass. 

Lincoln: Selections. 

Edited by William D. Armes, University of California. 

Macaulay: Life of Johnson. 

Edited by Chester N. Greenough, Harvard University. 

Macaulay: Lord Clive and Warren Hastings. 

Edited by Frederick E. Pierce, Yale University, and 
Samuel Thurber, Jr., Technical High School, Newton, Mass. 



AUG 2e Wf 

iBnQUeh IRcaMngS tor QcbOOle — Continued 

Milton: Lyric and Dramatic Poems. 

Edited by Martin W. Sampson, Cornell University. 

Old Testament Narratives. 

Edited by George H. Nettleton, Yale University. 

Scott: Quentin Durward. 

Edited by Thomas H. Briggs, Eastern Illinois State Normal 
School, Charleston, 111. 

Scott: Ivanhoe. 

Edited by Alfred A. May, Shattuck School, Faribault, Minn. 

Scott: Lady of the Lake. 

Edited by Alfred M. Hitchcock, Public High School, Hart- 
ford, Conn. 

Shakespeare: Macbeth. 

Edited by Felix E. Schelling, University of Pennsylvania. 

Shakespeare: Merchant of Venice. 

Edited by Frederick E. Pierce, Yale University. 

Shakespeare: Julius Caesar. 

Edited by Ashley H. Thorndike, Columbia University. 

Shakespeare: As You Like It. 

Edited by John W. Cunliffe and George Roy Elliott, 
University of Wisconsin. 

Stevenson: Inland Voyage and Travels with a Donkey. 
Edited by Edwin Mims, University of North Carolina. 

Stevenson: Treasure Island. 

Edited by Stuart P. Sherman, University of Illinois. 

Tennyson: Idylls of the King. 

Edited by John Erskine, Columbia University. 

Thackeray: English Humorists. 

Edited by William Lyon Phelps, Yale University. 

Washington: Farewell Address, with Webster: First 
Bunker Hill Oration. Edited by William E. Simonds, Knox 
College, Galesburg, 111. 

Wordsworth: Selections. Also from Coleridge, Shelley, 
and Keats. Edited by James W. Linn, University of 
Chicago. 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY, ^"iVfinK 




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